


College Days

by ScaryScarecrows



Series: The Autumn Effect [4]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: College, F/M, Gen, One-Shot Collection, Scarecrow - Freeform, bad neighbors, maybe a murder, or two, welcome to Gotham
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-04-19 18:26:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 57
Words: 26,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4756538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScaryScarecrows/pseuds/ScaryScarecrows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Temperamental cars, essay-happy teachers, and cooking. Welcome to college, Jonathan Crane.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Drive

He’s never been this far away from home. That’s the only reason he picked Gotham-it’s on the other side of the country. The more space between him and that _bitch_ , dead or not, the better.

Trees and dirt fly past the window. Sometimes branches scrape the car as if to hold him back. He presses the gas pedal down a little further. The speedometer’s broken. He doesn’t care. Anything to get the hell out of Georgia. He won’t be back, not if someone throws a rope around his neck and drags him.

Crows sit on a rotting scarecrow, glaring at him. He flips them off and adjusts his grip on the wheel. Little fuckers. They can’t touch him now. He almost hopes they dive-bomb the car, just so he can watch them splatter against the windows. They don’t give him the satisfaction.

College. He’d never really entertained the idea. Granny would never have let him leave. She’d have killed him first. Who’s laughing now?

It’s raining. When did it start to rain? Should he care? The windshield wipers work.

Good-bye, Georgia. Good-bye, Bo Griggs and Mark Sanchez and Mr. Hollister. And good-bye, Granny. Especially Granny. Despite her best efforts, he’s free. And he’s not going back.

A sign pops up: _You are now leaving Georgia! Come back soon!_

He leans back in the seat and watches the trees fly by.

Good-bye, Georgia.

THE END


	2. Rebellion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for this being so LATE-my flash drive went crazy and tried to delete everything. It has learned its lesson.

“Perhaps Mr. Crane can tell us the answer?”

Jonathan doesn’t even lift his head. The old man is trying to make a fool out of him, thinking he doesn’t know the material. The boring, boring material that should have taken ten minutes instead of two hours.

“Picasso, Sir.”

He hates art. Thank god he only has to take one class of it.

The professor goes back to his blackboard and Jonathan is left alone again. He adjusts his head on his arms and closes his eyes, only half-listening to the dull drone coming from the front of the room. He’s been working the graveyard shift for two weeks-someone’s on vacation-and he’s tired. Maybe Kitty will cook tonight. She cooked last night, though, so probably not.

“Mr. Crane?”

Now what?

“Yes, Sir?”

“Sit up.”

Honestly, there’s two chattering girls sitting right next to him! You know what? No. His classmates are bragging about not having done their homework, he can skip out of class early. It’s college, doing something slightly rebellious is sort of required. At least, that’s what Kitty keeps telling him. She even got him to drink a wine cooler before he was twenty-one!

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

He grabs his backpack and rushes out, hoping he looks pathetic. Once he’s safely away, he pushes his glasses up his nose and smirks. This is probably the worst thing he’s ever done.  He likes this feeling! Maybe he’ll try procrastinating next.

**_Jonny, you bad boy!_ **

_Shut up, Scarecrow._

**_When you do something really bad, like cuss out a teacher, I’ll be impressed. Until then, this is hilarious._ **

What? He has to start small. And he won’t cuss out a teacher. That’s just pathetic. The troglodytes he attends class with can do that.

Well, since he’s ditched, he may as well do his math homework. He can’t start failing, after all. He has to keep up his scholarship.

**_You’re DITCHING! Do something fun!_ **

_I need to keep my GPA, Scarecrow. Remember?_

**_I would have to get the boring alter._ **

_You’re no picnic, either._

**_Hey! I am awesome! Be grateful!_ **

_Why?_

Scarecrow launches into a rant and Jonathan shakes his head. He has to start small. These things take time, after all.

But oh, it does feel good to break the rules.

THE END 


	3. New Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for being AWOL. First my flash drive died, then my computer gave its life rescuing my documents from said drive...it's been horrible.

Jonathan isn’t surprised when he wakes up with a scratchy throat, a small headache-just behind the eyes, as usual-and a stuffy nose. Someone came to class sounding like a dying car and his immune system turned tail at the sound. Again.

_Thanks, Granny, thanks ever so much._

The only thing he can appreciate is Scarecrow’s absence for a few days.

He falls back on the bed, happy that it’s Sunday. Hopefully Kitty won’t mind if he bows out of making dinner this evening.

“Jonathan?”

“Morning.”

“You sound awful.”

“It’s nothing. Just a small cold.”

She makes a tsk-tsk sound and leaves the room. Good. Now he can go back to sleep.

He fluffs the pillow a bit and rolls over. He should get up and get some orange juice, but…

The door opens again. Now what? He just wants to suffer in peace! God!

He’s struck speechless when he spots the glass of orange juice on the nightstand, along with a box of tissues and the thermometer.

“Kitty?”

“Mm.”

“Why?”

“You’re sick. Why not?”

So this is what people do when someone is sick? Granny always banished him to his bedroom so he wouldn’t get _her_ sick.

“Just new, that’s all.”

She ruffles his hair and taps the thermometer.

“This first, then the juice. Then go back to sleep.”

Well. She’s much nicer than Arlen High’s nurse. _She_ always just jammed the thing in his mouth and told him to be quiet. And then usually sent him back to class.

She takes it from him when it goes off and he reaches for the juice glass. Blegh. They grabbed the pulpy kind by mistake.

“I don’t think you’ll die.”

“Good.”

“Go back to sleep, okay? I’ll wake you around noon for something to eat.”

Or not at all, that would be fine.

* * *

She does wake him, but only enough to ask him if he wanted soup. Soup. That might not be bad. It might be nice on his throat, anyway.

He’s very much surprised when she doesn’t just come and get him, but rather brings it in with another glass of juice. If he’s going to be honest, he’s more than a little alarmed.

“Um…”

“Please tell me this isn’t a new thing.”

“Sort of…”

“Jonathan.”

“Yes.”

She sighs, sets the tray down on his lap, and reaches over to feel his forehead. What’s she doing? What purpose does that serve?

“Your fever hasn’t gone down.” she tells him. “Eat that and maybe take a cool shower.”

Why?

Oh, never mind. The soup looks nice-well, as nice as Campbell’s will ever look-and he didn’t have to get it himself.

Did he fall into the Twilight Zone?

“Thank you.”

“Sure.”

She hovers a bit, probably not trusting him to actually eat it. He can’t blame her for that. He doesn’t trust himself to eat it, either.

He surprises himself by finishing the bowl of soup as well as the glass of pulpy orange juice. Still blegh.

“That’s better. Go on and take a shower now, all right? It might perk you up.”

He doubts it. All the same, he shuffles into the bathroom and turns on the water. She said to take a cool shower, but that’s just not happening. He needs to clear his nose out. Besides, he’s taken enough cool showers to last him a lifetime. (Granny was a cheapskate. He remembers being amazed that she had bothered having a _modern_ shower at all.)

It doesn’t perk him up, but it does clear his nose. Good enough. Now back to bed, and sleep.

“Did that help?”

He flinches and grabs for his pajama shirt. That only makes her laugh-how helpful-and come up behind him to give him a hug.

“I’ve seen it all, you know.”

“Still.”

“Come on, Mr. Modesty. Back to bed with you.”

He lets her drag him away from the sink and back to the bed, realizing too late that he dropped the shirt on the floor. Oh, well. She has a point. He doesn’t like it, but she has a point.

“D’you need anything? Tea, juice, another blanket?”

“M’okay.”

“Tell me if you do.” she says seriously. “I mean it. You don’t need to be doing anything today.”

How very odd.

“I will.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” Hopefully she won’t see that he’s fibbing.

“Good. Sweet dreams, Jonathan.”

He falls back on the bed and lets his eyes close. When he opens them a little while later, there’s a water bottle, the thermometer, and a new box on tissues on his nightstand.

He’d enjoy the novel-ness of all this, but he just wants to go back to sleep.

THE END


	4. The Spirit of the Goat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: GUYS. It's practically here. Anyone want to start placing bets on how long Oswald lasts before knifing the ever-loving fuck out of someone annoying? I'm betting zero episodes. He gets a gold star if he makes it to one. Takes place in Gotham's universe, running with the assumption that Jonathan is a native Gothamite and knows this shit. (We got nothing on this, what is it? TELL ME!)

"I know one you haven't heard yet."

"Tell me."

"I don't know...there's been a few people that believe it and made it real."

"You _have_ to tell me now."

He takes a long drink and says, "I don't know, Kitty. Could give you nightmares."

"It can't be that scary." She takes his free hand. "Please-pretty-please?"

"You won't hold me responsible if you can't sleep?"

"I won't, I won't. C'mon, tell me."

He grins, pulls his hand free, and turns the flashlight off. She can still make out his skinny form in the dark living room, but only just.

"All right." He takes another drink and falls silent for a minute. She sees his hand move up-probably adjusting his glasses. "If you insist."

Pfft. It can't be any scarier than the time she and her cousin saw a giant black dog out on the moor. It was probably just a stray, but the neighbor had died in a car accident not a week later.

She's lost sight of him in the blackness now.

"Jonathan?"

"They say the Goat's been here since the settlers came." he whispers from behind her. "There was a horrible winter that first year, you know. People died, starving and frozen in their homes."

His voice is low and raspy and he keeps moving-first behind her, then across the room, then right beside her.

"Some of them were desperate enough to eat their own children, to lead them like goats to slaughter and roast them on the fire." She shudders. "One night, so they say, one of them turned out to be still alive and escaped the flames into the woods.

But he was horribly scarred by the fire, in body and in mind, and he was starving for vengeance against those who did this to him." Is that him, crouching across from her in the darkened corner? "He hid in the woods to heal, and he learned to survive. But in doing so, he became less of a human and more of a twisted creature. Unable to walk upright, couldn't bear the light..."

The shadow in the corner seems to hobble forward, but when he speaks again, his voice is _behind_ her.

"Jonathan..."

"He returned to Gotham two winters later, this crippled, insane _thing_." His voice drops lower. "His parents had another child by now, a little girl. Oh, how he liked her. He liked her very much."

"Jonathan, I..."

He continues on as though he hasn't heard her.

"He took her for a day. Nobody knows exactly what happened, only that she was returned wrapped in a goat's skin.

And then he took others."

"Others?"

"Oh, yes." She has no idea where he is now, but the shadow seems to have gotten closer. "Always the eldest, the parent's pride and joy. He always returned them, but never alive. And they say...they say he continues his work to this day, that he returns when Gotham reaches rock bottom to scare them into fixing themselves."

He falls silent for several minutes. She can't even hear him breathing.

"Jonathan?" No answer. "Jonathan, this isn't funny, say something."

Hands wrap around her neck and a gravelly voice in her ear hisses, **_"I am the spirit of the Goat."_**

She's ashamed to admit that she shrieks and flails. He starts laughing and clicks the flashlight back on.

"A little jumpy, are we?"

"Shut up." She swats at him. "That was not funny."

"Yes it was."

She swipes the flashlight from him and shines it in the corner. It's the table, nothing more.

"What'd you mean when you said people made it real?"

"There's been a couple of serial killers who think they're him." He shrugs. "It is Gotham, after all."

She shivers and gets up to turn on the light.

"I take it back, I blame you for nightmares."

"What, you don't believe in that, surely."

"I believe in serial killers."

He shrugs and stretches.

"Just don't wake me up because you can't sleep."

She glares at him before going over to draw the curtains.

"I will wake you up, because it will be your fault."

He clicks off the flashlight.

"Good luck with that. Just remember..." He leans over and brushes his fingers across her collarbone. "The Goat could be anyone. Could even be me."

She grabs a pillow off the couch and smacks him in the head with it.

THE END


	5. Drunk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can get drunk off of wine coolers if you're a) a lightweight (Jonathan) or b) 88 lbs (me). Sad, isn't it.

“This is the sweetest kind they have, I promise. It’s good.”

“I hate alcohol.”

“You haven’t had anything good yet. Come on, just a sip of mine. You can’t even get drunk off of this.”

Fine. He’ll do it. But he won’t like it.

He reaches over and takes a tiny sip. Kitty rolls her eyes and motions for him to take a bigger one. He does. It tastes like limeade. He likes limeade.

“It’s okay.”

“I told you.”

He takes another sip and deems it not bad. She said he couldn’t get drunk…maybe one bottle won’t hurt. Just one. It is winter break, after all.

* * *

Why is everything moving? He tried to go from the couch to the TV-five measly steps!-and it turned into seven. He needs another limeade. Scarecrow is laughing at him. That bastard.

Actually, this is pretty funny. Maybe Scarecrow is right to laugh.

Limeade, limeade…they have no more limeade. Fine. Lemonade.

* * *

Pain. Blinding, horrible pain that makes him want to puke. What happened last night?

“Jonathan?”

No.

“My god.” What’s going on? “I thought I’d never see the day.”

“What?”

Ow.

“How can you have a hangover from wine coolers?”

THE END


	6. The Alleged Car

The truck died last week. Jonathan isn’t very sorry. It was too redneck for his liking, but it had been cheap and had good gas millage.

They have to get a new car, unfortunately. Grocery shopping is a pain when you have to take the bus, and it’s too cold to bike or walk.

They’re broke. Kitty works as a Wal-Mart greeter and he found a job at the local supermarket.  It’s money, and he can’t complain, but sometimes he wishes he could set the place on fire. Old people especially irritate him.

The car they get is black, ancient, and in terrible condition. But it runs well-considering-and it’s cheap. More importantly, it’s not stick. Thank you, Jesus.

They’re driving home when it makes a sudden squeal.

“We should name it Christine.”

“We are  not  naming the car Christine.”

“That wasn’t a car sound!”

She gives him The Look and he drops the subject. Fine. They won’t name it Christine. But this thing is not a car. Cars don’t make that kind of noise.

He is proven right when he looks out the window later and sees it sitting in the parking lot, glaring at him. No. That’s not a car. It just wants him to think so. He points at it, just so it knows he’s onto it, just as Kitty walks in.

“What are you doing?”

“That car is not a car.”

“It’s just old!”

“It’s not a car! It’s possessed or something!”

She shuts the drapes and tugs him towards the bed. Fine. When it kills her, he’ll visit her grave and say ‘I told you so’. Right before she pops up as a zombie or something, probably.

“You are being ridiculous.”

“But…”

“It’s just a car.”

“An alleged car.”

She lets the subject go after that.

                                                                                                                        THE END


	7. In Which the Alleged Car Breaks Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's baack! OH. The song on the radio is Alice in Chains' 'Them Bones'. Ouch.

Jonathan doesn't like this car. He doesn't know _why_ , exactly. Maybe it belonged to a serial killer. Fear is good. Serial killers are bad. He doesn't want a serial killer's car. What if there's still bloodstains in it or something?

Whether or not he likes it, it runs fine and he's stuck with it. And since his job is the farther one, he has to drive it more. God, why?

**_It's not the end of the world._ **

_You wanted to name it Satan._

The car grumbles and shudders and Jonathan smacks the dashboard reflexively. He realizes how stupid that was a second later and pats it to make up for it.

**_Really?_ **

_What if it dives off the bridge with me in it?_

As if to remind him that it _could_ , the radio starts playing something that goes 'gonna end up a big ol' pile of them bones'. Jonathan changes the station. That's just too morbid.

The Alleged Car doesn't like that, apparently, because it suddenly makes a whining noise and dies. Really? They're in the middle of the Narrows and he _knows_ he filled it up this morning.

**_Fuck._ **

_I think I made it mad._

**_Get out of there before it eats you!_ **

He'd never thought of that. He gets out of the car and wonders if he can walk to work…no. Not here. He'll just find a pay phone and announce that he's a little late.

That goes as well as could be expected and he returns to the car, which seems to be smirking at him. Who'd have thought this crappy black car would be so…wrong?

"I called a tow truck." he tells it. "So don't complain to me."

**_If it was anything else, I'd say see a shrink._ **

_But it's not._

**_Yeah. Be nice to it._ **

After a minute, he reaches over and pats it. The hood flies open and nearly hits him in the face.

**_Whaa!_ **

_That could have hurt._

It's smoking under there. He has no idea what he's doing and he has no intention of touching it.

"Okay. Not touching."

He'll just have to wait for the tow truck to get here, apparently.

 

THE END


	8. Kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did try to make this all romantic and special. Nobody wanted it to go that way, so this happened. *shrugs* Personal opinion, kissing is extremely unpleasant. You're exchanging saliva and God-knows-what-else. How is that romantic?

He supposes it's not technically his first kiss. He has a vague recollection of her kissing him when he had a fever, but that could have been his imagination.

First or not, he wasn't expecting it. It just happened. One minute they were lying on the couch and the next minute they were…connected by the mouth. He doesn't remember who instigated it-probably her-and he doesn't care. Scarecrow wants him to quit thinking about it. For once, he's got a point.

Before it can go anywhere else, she untangles her fingers from his hair and sits up. He blinks, wondering if he dreamed the whole thing.

"Kitty?"

"Drapes."

What about the drapes?

**_They're open._ **

_So?_

**_So she's going to close them. Now let me do the talking…_ **

_Shut up, Scarecrow._

**_Oh my God, he's grown up on me!_ **

There's a _swoosh_ noise and the room is bathed in shadow.

"Where were we?"

THE END


	9. Murder

He didn't want this. He didn't think Scarecrow would do something like this. Not again. But here he stands, his hands covered in blood, looking down at a body that is technically there because he put it there.

He blinks and runs to bathroom to vomit and try to clean up, wondering what in the world happened. He remembers going in there to talk to the man-Kitty's English professor, he'd taken a shine to her-and having a bit of an argument.

**_And that's where I came in._ **

_What have you done?_

**_He won't be harassing anyone else._ **

_You did this because you were feeling righteous?_

**_I don't care about the others. But the only one allowed to harass our girlfriend is me, thank you very much._ **

_How am I supposed to explain this?_

**_You lock the door and clean up. Make it look like a suicide. Not that anyone will care._ **

_To Kitty, you idiot!_

**_Oh. Just…don't mention it._ **

He'll have no choice but to mention it, but he might downplay the details.

_What exactly did you do?_

**_In my defense, he took out the switchblade first. I just…borrowed it. I gave it right back._ **

_Scarecrow…_

**_Okay, okay! I slashed his throat and cut his face up a bit._ **

He pukes again. Scarecrow scoffs and mutters something about him being a wuss. He didn't want this. He didn't want to have any more bodies on his hands! Granny was one thing-that was self-defense, after all.

**_Come on, help me clean things up._ **

Never again. If he has to, he'll see a psychiatrist about hearing voices. But he will not be cleaning up any more bodies.

THE END


	10. Art Teacher

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a teacher like this. The awkwardness…oh, my god. My friend and I left the room after the first day in a state of shock.
> 
> Until he decided to rehash everything. I had to tell him to shut up or I'd stuff his flannel down his throat.

Dear god.

Art teachers are insane.

He's fairly convinced that this one had some kind of childhood trauma or something. She had to have. Nobody is that…attracted…to marble statues.

**_Is she trying to jack it off?_ **

_I will never take this class again. Never._

**_God, that's awkward._ **

_Must not make eye contact. Must not make eye contact._

**_What the hell is she doing to it?_ **

_I'M NOT LOOKING._

**_I wanna see._ **

_Too bad._

**_What if this is on the test?_ **

_I'll fail._

**_What if Kitty asks about this?_ **

_Why would she ask about this?_

**_JUST LOOK._ **

_NO._

She does realise that David was…twelve or so, doesn't she? God, why?

He glances at the board, takes notes, and plasters his eyes to the paper again. He isn't alone-around him, his classmates are either giggling or staring determinedly at their notebooks.

Beside him, Edward Nygma is the approximate colour of a tomato.

"Jon." he hisses. "What is she _doing_?"

"No idea."

"Is it on purpose?"

"Maybe."

For once, he's speechless.

This is going to be a long semester.

* * *

"You look shell-shocked, love. Something happen?"

"Art class."

"Oh?"

"Never again."

"What….ohhh." She laughs and shoos him aside so she can get at the mugs. "They're all like that. It's what they do."

"They weren't like this in high school!"

"They just hid it better, that's all. What'd they do, feel up the statue? Tell you all the hidden porn references in Disney films?"

"Statue." he mumbles. "It was horribly awkward. Even Edward was silenced."

"You'll have to show me what she did." she says.

"No."

"No?"

"I'm trying to block it out."

"God, you're so repressed*." She gives him a kiss on the cheek. "I have a test on Monday-I'll be studying. Good luck blocking it out."

"Uh-huh."

Again: this is going to be a long semester.

THE END

* You know Arlen's sex ed. was 'abstinence, don't have fun'. Granny's was probably very Victorian-'exposed ankle? whore!' So yes, very repressed/naïve. Kitty's thrilled at having essentially a blank slate to work with.


	11. Late Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a college student, let me say that night classes have their good bits. Mainly the lack of partying idiots that have to text all the time and try to copy your homework.

Why did he sign up for a late night class? What possessed him to do that in a place like Gotham? Now he has to walk to The Alleged Car, which is all the way across the parking lot. He'll never make this mistake again.

**_Can't you walk a little faster?_ **

_Oh, so you're scared!_

**_If you get jumped, I have to deal with the injuries. So go._ **

He grips his keys tightly in his right hand and wishes he had mace or something. It feels like he's got a neon sign saying 'mug me!' strapped to his back.

There! There's The Alleged Car. Hopefully it won't pick tonight to die. It's been making a rattling noise for a while, but it's either the rent or the car and Gotham isn't the best place to be homeless.

He feels a little better when he's inside and it starts. He'll never make the mistake of taking a late class again.

Ever.

THE END


	12. Mary Sue

Mary Sue likes the look of her new neighbor. He's cute. Most importantly, he's nerdy to the point of pathetic-ness. Maybe he can be her study buddy.

"Hi." she breathes. "I'm Mary Sue."

"That's nice."

Hm. Maybe he's never had a pretty girl talk to him before.

"I was wondering if…"

"I'm trying to pay attention."

This one will take some work.

* * *

His name is Jonathan Crane and he lives off-campus. That's a shame. Oh, well, she's never been one to turn down a challenge.

She gets her chance when they get assigned group work. He looks utterly crushed when he finds out. Poor thing, does he have any friends at all?

"So…"

"Let's just get this over with."

Huh? What is his problem? Maybe he has no social skills.

"I'm Mary Sue." she says.

"You told me."

He remembered!

"You're…um…"

"Jonathan Crane. You do the drawing, I'll do the writing."

She's always liked a guy who takes charge.

* * *

Well, it's been two weeks and he hasn't said a word to her. Maybe he's really shy. She thinks he's really shy. He probably likes her and isn't sure what to say. She'll have to get things rolling, then.

"Did you want to get together and study after class?"

"No."

"What about tomorrow?"

"Not really."

"Jonathan…" He inches away a little bit. "How are we supposed to get to know each other if we don't talk?"

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

"I'm sure you're very nice, but I have a girlfriend."

Okay, fine. So they have sex and no relationship. He's cute enough for that.

"So?"

"What…no. I'm not interested. Good afternoon."

That asshole! Everyone is interested in her! How does he think she passed high school algebra?

"But…"

He's already walking very quickly down the hall. Fine. Jerk. He probably doesn't even have a girlfriend. There's no way a guy with that kind of attitude can get one.

* * *

It's been two weeks since her first rejection. She's starting to get over it when she sees that bastard in the grocery store. There's a woman with him. She's probably his sister. She'll just set a few things straight while she's here.

"Jonathan!"

"Who…ah. You again."

Oh, so now he's being polite?

"Is this your girlfriend?"

She's hoping for a shocked, 'He has a girlfriend?' That's not what she gets.

"Yes. Kitty, this is my…um…neighbor. The one I told you about."

"I see. Pleasure."

Where the hell is she from?

"Yeah, he told me about you."

"I'm sure he did. I've heard a lot about you."

There's a hint of scorn in that tone and Mary feels almost ashamed. Almost. Then she remembers this is some scrawny foreigner that probably faked a pregnancy or something. Bitch.

"That's…"

"We should be going, love."

Ugh.

Jonathan gives her a smug smirk when Kitty isn't looking. Mary shudders. There's something in that smirk that appeals to her self-preservation instincts. This Kitty can keep him. If she ends up dead in an alley, Mary won't be surprised.

"Nice seeing you."

"Always a pleasure."

Yeah. There's something wrong with this guy. She can feel it way down inside.

THE END


	13. In Which the Alleged Car is Sneaky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MUAHAHAHAHA! IT RETURNS! This is like writing...what is it, sixteen?...Friday the 13th films. I should stop, but it's too much fun.

"I don't know what your problem is with this car." Kitty said, backing out of the parking lot and easing it onto the freeway. "It's just an old car. It's not like it belonged to the Boston Strangler or something."

Says who? Oh, god, it probably _did_ belong to the Boston Strangler! No wonder it hates him.

"It hates me!"

"It's a car, love. You're being ridiculous. So it broke down in the Narrows. Rotten luck, that's all."

Maybe Granny possessed it. He wouldn't put it past her.

**_If she did, burn it first and explain later. Tell Kitty it spontaneously combusted._ **

_She won't believe me._

**_Cry on her, then! Distract her!_ **

Really? There were better ways to do that than lowering himself to tears. He wasn't a child, after all.

"I'll drive tomorrow and you'll see. It makes a noise when I drive it. Some kind of clunking noise."

_We've got it._

**_Maybe she'll get a priest._ **

_No priests. You know how I feel about the Church._

**_Sorry, Jonny. I forgot._ **

"Whatever, love. If it starts spinning around or talking, I'll believe you."

Ha-ha.

It was time for her to see the monster in disguise of a car. Now she would quit mocking him. He rubbed his hands together when she wasn't looking and inserted the key into the ignition.

**_I want to put our key in her ignition, if you know what I mean._ **

_What is wrong with you?_

**_What? We have a hot girlfriend, we're supposed to drool._ **

_Shut up, Scarecrow. I'm trying to prove a point._

Within five minutes, The Car would start making that horrible clunking noise and shuddering every five feet.

Okay, maybe within ten minutes.

Fifteen?

Oh, come on!

"Yeah, it really hates you."

"Kitty…"

"You're imagining things. Now quit freaking out over a car. This isn't the Twilight Zone."

But The Car came from the Twilight Zone.

"I'll pick you up at one." he grouched. "Try not to get out early."

"Try not to hurt the car, love." She kissed his cheek. "See you."

He had just reached the next stoplight when it shuddered…and a clanking noise reached his ears.

**_It knows._ **

It was probably laughing at him.

**_What do we do?_ **

_We be very nice to it._

**_No backseat fucks, then?_ **

_…No._

**_Damn. What if we parked it a little ways outside of town?_ **

That didn't even deserve a response.

THE END


	14. Essay

_ The powers that be… _

_ Of the powers invested in the state… _

**_Let's just fail. This is boring._ **

_I need to pass the class!_

**_Can't you just have sex with the teacher or something?_ **

_Have sex with a fifty year-old man._

**_Never mind._ **

They both shudder at the idea and Jonathan picks up his pencil again. Thanks to Scarecrow, he's lost what little concentration he had and this thing is due tomorrow afternoon. He has one more paragraph and he's at a loss for what to put.

"Jonathan, what are you…still?"

"Yes." He slumps over the paper and his glasses slide down and hit the desk. "I don't care. I'll never need this class again."

For a minute he thinks she'll offer help or encouragement. Then…

"Good luck. I have to go to work. See you later."

He pretends to be busy until he's sure she's out of earshot.

"I hope he gets impaled by that pointer of his."

**_That can be arranged._ **

_I meant accidentally. You know. Karma or whatever._

They both entertain that image before Jonathan picks up his pencil one more time. He'll finish this or die trying. If it's the latter, he'll be haunting this essay-happy idiot until the end of time.

THE END


	15. Flu Season

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a friend who reacts TERRIBLY to cold medicine. Many hours of amusement have come from watching this.

Jonathan Crane had scarcely finished his paper when the front door cracked open and a nasty cough reached his ears. He was tempted to call out an 'I told you so', but figured it might not be the best plan of action.

"Kitty?"

More coughs reached his ears and he stood up, stretched, and went to see if she needed help.

She was still capable of standing, but she looked awful. Had she looked this awful when she left for work this morning? He didn't think so.

"H-hi, Jonathan." Cough. "That bitch Jolene got me sick."

Her voice was slurred and he grimaced.

"Come on, bed."

"Couch."

Uh, no. That was not going to happen. Sick people needed to shut up and go to bed, not sit on the couch watching bad movies.

"Come on." he said again. "Either you'll cooperate or I'll get physical."

She giggled.

"You never get physical, Jonathan."

Yerg. She must have been feeling sick. Sick or not, she wasn't budging and he wanted her to go to bed.

He picked her up, grateful that she was literally an inch away from being a midget, and carried her to bed. She didn't make it easy, oh no. She rasped at him and squirmed and nearly toppled them over.

"Here! For heaven's sakes, Kitty, there's no reason to act like I'm dragging you to the doctor's office."

"You're a doctor."

"I'm working on it." he reminded her. "How long have you been sick? And don't you dare lie to me, I can tell when you do."

She grinned, just for a moment, before starting to cough. Ugh. That sounded like a chest cough, and that was usually bad.

"Erm…I dunno."

"Kitty…" He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Try to focus. You're not drunk, you're sick. There is a difference."

"Cold medicine." she rasped. Great. Cold medicine always made her high as a kite, no matter how low of a dose she took. Whichever idiot it was that gave her cold medicine was going to be sorry. He considered sending her back to torture them. "Jolene was sorry for coming sick."

Oh. Jolene, was it? He hated Jolene now, with a flaming passion.

"Great." he said. "Just great."

Idiot woman. Some people were allergic to that stuff!

"Don't be mad."

"I'm not mad. Don't move. Just go to sleep or something, I'll wake you for dinner later."

"Dinner's over."

What…right.

"Supper. Sorry."

She shrugged and rolled over.

"I'm tired."

"Good."

"But kinda wired."

"Sleep anyway. Doctor's orders."

"Thought you weren't a doctor yet."

God, he just couldn't win! As he'd thought before, he _hated_ Jolene with a flaming passion.

"Go to sleep, Kitty."

She flipped him off. He rolled his eyes and retreated to see if they had any soup or ramen or…anything.

Hm. They didn't. That could be problematic. She couldn't go to work, and he didn't really want her at school. It could be influenza.

"Damn."

He finally stumbled upon a very old, possibly expired ramen noddle cup. It would do. It didn't look moldy or anything.

Unfortunately, he didn't read the instructions. After two and a half minutes in the microwave, there was a bright blue flame and then…nothing. Oops.

"Jonathan?"

Shit.

"Go back to bed."

"Did you set something on fire?"

"Accidentally, yes. Go back to bed."

She laughed, but it came out sounding like a cackle. All the same, she did go back to bed. Jonathan disposed of the still-smoldering ramen cup and started looking through the cupboards for tea. That would be better than nothing.

They did have tea-of course they had tea, Kitty would commit murder if they ran out of tea-and he managed to make a halfway decent cup of chamomile.

"Thanks, love."

"Mm."

"Don't go away."

"You'll get me sick." he reminded her. "One of us has to work, remember?"

She pouted at him.

"I can work."

"You try and I'll write a doctor's note saying you've got tuberculosis." he threatened. "My handwriting's bad enough to fake it."

"When did you become such a bad boy, Jonathan?"

One of these days he really would have to study the effects of cold medicine on the mental state. This was fascinating. And amusing.

"What kind of cold medicine did she give you?"

"Daytime." she said. "The orange kind."

Dayquil, then. Okay.

"When?"

"Oh…three hours ago or so. I think. Things got fuzzy."

"Pill or liquid?"

"Pill."

Good. It would wear off soon, then, in another few hours.

"Okay. Maybe try a shower and then go back to bed. Okay?"

She looked at him, her expression bored.

"Later."

"No, now."

Had she reverted to a childlike state? God almighty, he was going to have a long chat with Jolene about handing out medicine at random.

"Uh-uh."

He wasn't about to wrestle with her.

"Okay. I am going to run up to the store. You are going to keep your mouth shut, you sound awful."

"M'kay."

"Good. Any preferences?"

She shook her head and rolled over. If he was really lucky, she would go to sleep while he was gone.

Sure enough, when Jonathan got back, Kitty had gone to sleep. Her tea was gone and she'd huddled up under the covers. Good. Maybe when she woke up she'd be a little more lucid.

He closed the bedroom door and went back to his paper to proofread it.

THE END


	16. Theme Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scarecrow's 'Theme Song' is Metallica's 'Sad But True'. It just fits him so well, in my humble opinion.

"Hey! I'm your life…"

_Ugh, I'm switching off._

**_Don't you touch that knob! This is my theme song!_ **

_You don't have a theme song._

**_Yes I do! And this is it! If you change the channel, I'll take over and change it back. And then I'll drive. You know what happens when I drive._ **

_…You bastard._

**_That would be you, technically._ **

Jonathan Crane scowls but turns the volume down. Leave it to Scarecrow to have a 'theme song'. This isn't some cheesy film. Nobody has a theme song in real life.

"I'm your dream, make you real…"

And this is terrible theme song. Couldn't he have picked the Funeral March or something? Even the Psycho Strings are better than this.

**_Shut up, I'm trying to rock!_ **

_Whatever, Scarecrow._

God, when will it end? Scarecrow has no taste in music, none at all.

The radio suddenly makes a whining noise and dies. Saved by the car!

**_Put it back!_ **

_I didn't touch it. Take it up with the car._

**_You were right. This car is possessed by some grouchy old man._ **

Jonathan pats the steering wheel. Scarecrow snarls before hitting upon a terrible idea.

**_I'll just sing the rest of it, then._ **

_No._

**_HEY! I'm your life, and I no longer care!_ **

God, why?

THE END


	17. First

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Jonathan's (actual) first kiss, the one he only kind of remembers.

It's very hot in here. He doesn't remember it ever being this hot in the apartment. Wasn't the heater broken?

Something wet and slimy presses against his lips and he pinches them shut. Perhaps the heat has drawn out maggots or something. He isn't taking any chances. Not after that vile fizzy liquid that he swallowed before.

"Come on, love, just take the ice cube. If you won't drink the Sprite, you'll have to suck on the cube."

That was _not_ an ice cube.

"Jonathan…" The familiar voice sounds cross. He's sorry-a little-but he's not opening his mouth. "Please? For me?"

He'd love to oblige, but he _does_ have a sense of self-preservation.

"Please?"

There's a clinking noise. Good. She's given up. Maybe now he can ponder this sudden heat.

His disjointed ponderings are interrupted by a new feeling. Two very soft, very foreign objects are now pressed against his lips. He forces his eyelids open to see what's going on.

Just as he does so, the objects leave. So that was a kiss? That wasn't so terrible. He opens his mouth to say so and finds the cold, slimy object thrust against his teeth.

"I told you you'd take it eventually."

That wasn't fair! He chokes on the cube and shifts it to the side.

"Kitty…"

"I'm not wearing a nurse outfit for you." she says softly. "Go back to sleep."

What? Never mind.

"But…"

She pecks his nose and walks away. He stays still, his tongue numb and his lips tingling. After a few minutes, he starts to wonder if the whole thing happened at all.

THE END


	18. In Which Scarecrow Learns to Drive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is partially based on family legend. Apparently my grandmother outran the police once when they spotted her speeding. The only other witness is fairly unreliable, however, so nobody really knows for sure. Oh, and po-po is real slang for the police. Don't ask.

**_I wanna drive!_ **

_Why? You can't drive._

**_But what if I need to? What if you get knocked out?_ **

_We share a body, genius. If I'm knocked out, so are you._

**_…shut up._ **

Before he can complain, Scarecrow's hijacked everything and jammed the keys in the ignition.

_Hey! Move over, you'll get us killed! And Kitty will murder me if you hurt the car!_

**_WHOO!_ **

He'd love to close his eyes, but he can't. All he can do is watch the speedometer needle inch closer and closer to eighty. And listen to Scarecrow's horrible choice of radio. If ever he were to believe in God, now is the time.

_Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Please forgive my idiot alter, who knows not what he does. Oh, and forgive me, because I had nothing to do with this. Amen._

**_That was beautiful…crap._ **

_What?_

**_The po-po._ **

_The what…pull over, you idiot!_

**_Fuck that! Hang on, Jonny, I got this._ **

No. No. No. Please, Jesus, no.

They swerve right and cut down an alley. For one terrible moment, Jonathan's convinced they'll get stuck-great, they'll be cut out of the car and then ticketed-but they make it. A few more turns into a sketchy neighborhood, and the police are gone.

_Give me this._

He wrenches control of the wheel and navigates out of the neighborhood.

_I can't believe you._

**_That was fun! Can I do it again?_ **

_No. Now sit back and be quiet and hope Kitty doesn't find out._

THE END


	19. Over

"We're going for a walk, Mum."

Well, walk isn't the right word. Jonathan's all but dragging her out the door.

"All right!"

"Jonathan, where are we…"

"Humor me."

Where are they going? There's nowhere to go!

They're back in Georgia for Christmas-her parents threatened to descend on them without warning if they didn't come. It's cold and Kitty hates it, but they didn't have much choice. It's a small consolation that Jonathan hates it even more.

"Jonathan…"

He's tugging her across the no-man's land, towards the remains of the chapel. Why are they going there? Oh, god, he's not going to throw _her_ in there, is he?

"Jonathan, please!"

He finally lets her go, but only to push the heavy doors open. They aren't locked, and she's surprised that they haven't rotted away.

She's only been in here once, and she didn't see much of it then. She was a bit preoccupied at the time.

It's empty now, but the floor is littered with feathers. Jonathan's crossed the room and begun to circle it. She wonders if he's looking for something.

"Hasn't changed much." he says softly. "There used to be cross there." He points at the far wall. "I wonder if it's still soundproof."

"What?"

"When I was seven years old I used to beg for her to let me out. I don't think she heard me." He comes towards her and she tenses, not at all certain that he hasn't lost his mind. "She used to shove me and slam the door and stand outside, singing. I think she only stopped because she got too old to stand there for a long time." He closes the doors. Kitty puts a few more feet between them. "Are you afraid of me?"

She doesn't answer for several minutes.

"You never told me this."

"No."

"Why are we here?"

"I wanted to see if she's still here."

It strikes her that he never told her exactly what happened that night. That whole aftermath is a bit of a blur, really. She remembers him showing up late one night and telling her a horrifying secret-that he'd killed his grandmother-but after that it all blends together. She'd been too shocked that quiet Jonathan Crane had done such a thing to ask questions. And, if she was going to be honest, she hadn't really wanted to know the answers.

"What happened?"

He doesn't seem to realize she's here. He's circling the room again, occasionally stopping to brush a pile of feathers aside.

"We gave her a taste of her own medicine." he says softly. "Scarecrow and I. He got her out here and threw her in. I…I wasn't very happy with him at first. I thought it wouldn't work." But it had. Oh, god, she doesn't want to know where this story is going. "Here she is."

He bends down and brushes away a pile of feathers and broken eggshells. After a minute, he picks up a white thing. It takes her a moment to recognize it as a skull and when she does, she puts a greater distance between them.

"Put that down."

He's ignoring her again, this time in favor of examining the skull.

"It's all scraped up from their beaks." he says softly. Kitty wishes he'd drop it. If he doesn't, she's running back to the house and getting the hell out of here. She should have told someone before, she should have told her parents that Jonathan Crane had confessed to murder and was hearing voices…

"Jonathan, please." she whispers. "Please, you're scaring me…"

He sets the skull down with what must be the rest of the skeleton. She still has time to run, if she does it now she might be able to outrun him…

"She's dead." he says. "She's not going to come back."

"No."

"I'll meet you back at the house."

"What?"

"I'll meet you."

She takes the opening to leave.

She tells her parents that Jonathan's having an attack of nostalgia-his grandmother passed not too long ago, poor thing-and that he wanted to take one last look at his childhood home. The lies come so easy, even now. Then again, for all she knows, that really is what he's doing. Assuming that he's not busy setting it on fire.

She's lying in her old room, listening for the sound of the front door. What she hears instead is a low tapping on her window.

"It's open." He knows that, she never did get in the habit of locking it. "My parents know you're here, you don't have to sneak in."

"I was feeling nostalgic."

He's shivering and she allows herself an eye-roll before she drops a blanket over his shoulders.

"Where were you?"

"Thought I'd take one last look at the old place." Oh, she really wasn't lying to her parents? That's reassuring. "Make sure there wasn't anything we can sell on eBay."

"Don't joke."

"I was serious."

This bed is still too small for two people. Her father put them in separate rooms-still trying to deny that she was grown up, probably-but he hasn't actually slept in there. Within five minutes he's usually in her room. He _says_ it's because he's used to the surroundings. She doesn't believe him for a minute.

"What was that about? Earlier?"

"You didn't know her like I knew her." he says quietly. "I'm not superstitious, Kitty, but Granny…if anyone could come back from the dead, it would be her."

She shakes her head and rolls over to face him.

"That's not possible."

"I know."

"Just go to sleep. She's not going to come back."

He stretches out, taking way too much of the bed. Fine. His complaints about being used as a pillow are now null and void.

"What are you doing?"

"You took my bed." She yawns. Her hands are cold and she slides them up his shirt.

"Hey!"

"I'm cold."

"I'm aware, thank you very much!"

He'll live.

"Night Jonathan."

"Kitty…"

"I said good night."

The conversation is over.

THE END


	20. Closure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Related to yesterday's bit.

Jonathan stands in the foyer of the old mansion. If he listens closely, he can hear the echoes of years past. Most of them are screams of, 'Granny, please!'

He shakes his head and looks at the staircase, half-expecting the old crone to be standing there. She isn't-why should she be, her bones are outside where he left them-and he starts towards the stairs.

The house is dark and crumbling. In another few years, time will have swallowed it. The sooner that happens, the happier he will be.

Ah, this was his old bedroom. It's just as bare as it always was-he took everything he owned with him when he left.

A black widow has made a home in the windowsill and he leaves the room. It's freezing in here. It doesn't matter now-he got what he wanted.

He doesn't lock the door, but he does check on Granny's bones one last time. Just to be sure.

She won't come back.

THE END


	21. Grades

"A B-minus! That idiot gave me a B minus! Is he trying to ruin my GPA?"

"A B-minus…it's an algebra test! Quit complaining. Plenty of people out there would love to have it."

Jonathan gives the offending test a dark look.

"B-minus. I knew I should have studied more."

Kitty loves him, she really does. But every so often she wants to kill him. This is one of those times.

"One B minus is not going to ravage your GPA." God. "I promise."

"A B-minus! I've never gotten a B-minus in my life!"

The urge to strangle him is steadily growing. While it's true that she seldom gets lower than a B, it isn't the end of the world when it happens.

"Jonathan, love…"

"A B-minus!"

This is it. He can panic over his test by himself, she has a paper to write.

"Yes. A B-minus."

She leaves him in the kitchen.

THE END


	22. Naughty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know what you're thinking, and you're wrong. This is inspired by and heavily features the Courage the Cowardly Dog episode 'Freaky Fred'. It's probably on YouTube, but if not, Fred's lines can be found on Creepypasta.

"Why did they have to make him say that?" Kitty complained. "Kid's show, indeed…no wonder you turned out so well. No cable."

"Thanks, Kitty."

She nestled into his side. He considered complaining-on principle, of course-but he didn't feel like it. Besides, this was very interesting. He hadn't known her to have fears aside from cockroaches. This could all turn into a fascinating experiment.

They'd been having a _Courage the Cowardly Dog_ marathon all evening. They'd stumbled upon it by accident once and wondered why it was a kid's show. Nothing on there was kid-friendly. _The X-Files_ had more kid-friendly moments, for heaven's sake! End result: they'd taped them all on Friday nights and compiled a little library.

Kitty hated the barber episode. He couldn't really blame her-the thing had big teeth and a verbal tic. Every other word out of his mouth was 'naauughty', said in a _most_ disturbing way.

"I fucking hate that thing."

It was an effort to keep a straight face.

"I know."

"And that nursery tune…no, thank you." He whistled a few bars of it and she poked him. "Stoppit."

"Stop what?"

"You know what."

He shrugged and felt her tighten her arms around his chest. Yes, this could be a very interesting experiment.

He waited for her to go to sleep before untangling himself and getting up. He wanted a drink, and then he wanted to see what would happen. For science, of course.

Well, science and the fact that he was easily amused.

He got his water and slunk back into their room. How did it go again…ah, yes. Now he remembered.

"Hello, new friend, my name is Fred. The words you hear are in my head. I say, I said my name is Fred, and I've been very…naauughty."

She was awake now, he could tell. What was the next bit…right.

"The story I'm about to tell, I tell you, I will tell it well, is of my dear aunt Muriel, and just how I was…naauughty."

A pillow struck him in the face.

"Jonathan!"

"Yes?"

"Knock it off! You know I hate that episode!"

Of course he did, why did she think he was quoting it?

"Sorry, Kitty. Couldn't resist."

"Shut up and go to sleep, love."

He waited for her to start dozing off again before whistling a few bars of the hated nursery tune. That earned him another whack with a pillow and an outraged, "Jonathan Crane!"

"Sorry. Night."

She muttered something that wasn't very nice and curled up again.

"Night."

She may have been a little annoyed with him, but it was worth it. He was tempted to continue, but then she might throw him out and he didn't especially want that.

Oh, what the hell?

"Barbara, my love was named, and her fair hair, a mane untamed. Until one evening, I'm ashamed, I got a little…naauughty."

Couch or not, that had been very worth it indeed.

**_Someone's been a little naauughty, eh, Jon?_ **

_Yes._

**_That was hilarious. Think she'll forgive you?_ **

_I'll make dinner tomorrow, that usually calms her down._

They shared a quiet chuckle and Jonathan reached for the remote. He was about to turn the TV on when a very quiet voice reached his ears.

"Good-bye, dear aunt, I'll miss your farm, and Eustace's ebullient charm. And farewell, Courage, what's the harm, if I was slightly…naauughty. With love, Fred."

He would never, under any circumstances, try this again. No matter how good an idea it might seem, he would remember this.

"Kitty?"

"Yes?"

"I really am very sorry."

"I know. Budge up."

He moved back enough to let her lie down.

"Night, Kitty."

"Night, love. Behave."

"Always."

Well…most of the time, anyway.

THE END


	23. Date Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Truth be told...BEST. DATE NIGHT. EVER. (I hate dinner dates. They're always so awkward!) That aside, 'Humans can lick, too' is a rather famous urban legend. 'The Clown Statue' is just creepy. Look it up on Snopes.

Two days. That's how long it took for them to get moved in, reassure Kitty's parents that they're fine, and fend off the neighbors. And he does mean fend-if he hears 'what a cute couple!' once more, he'll puke.

Now, though, they've got three days until school starts, one last mutual day off from work, and no neighbors in sight. So what are they doing? Sitting in a dark room like normal college students, what else?

Well, maybe not exactly. He's fairly certain that most students would be doing other things in the dark room, not trying to scare each other to death.

"…the note said, 'humans can lick, too'."

She shivers. He grins and gestures for her to come up with a better one.

"Well?"

"I…"

There's a knock on the door and she ends up practically in his lap.

"Hi."

"You get it."

"Me!"

"You wouldn't send me to face the serial killer, would you?"

He's slightly insulted that she would rather him face the serial killer…wait. No serial killers knocks on the door. That's just silly.

**_There was that one movie, where he was the stepfather._ **

_True._

"No."

That earns him a kiss on the cheek and she lets him up.

"My hero."

He shuffles to the door and looks through the peephole. Who is here at this time of night? What business does anyone have at this hour?

Is that Granny?

He blinks and shakes his head. No, no, she's dead…

"Jonathan?" He flinches and she puts her hand on his arm. "Who is it?"

It can't be Granny. That's just not possible. She's dead, he made sure of that.

"Some old lady."

She gives him a sympathetic look, like she knows what he thought. She probably does know. She knows more than he cares to admit.

"Shall we answer?"

"No."

She tugs him back to the room and onto the bed. The old lady knocks again-insistent old bitch, shouldn't she be home having warm milk?

She goes away soon enough and he closes his eyes.

"Well, Kitty? I believe it was your turn."

She grins and leaned forward, her nose almost touching his.

"Did I ever tell you about the clown statue?"

"No…"

"Well, there was a babysitter…"

THE END


	24. Road Trip, Pt. 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of an arc, no end in sight. Craziness, comedy, scariness...anything goes. Because driving from Arlen to Gotham is just so much fun.

"Are you sure you have everything?"

"Yes, Mum."

"Positive? Soap, money, tampons?"

"MUM!"

"What?"

Jonathan repressed a snicker and tossed the last of the suitcases into the truck. Finally, they'd be leaving. He'd be happy to get out of this godforsaken town.

"All right…call me when you get there."

"Yes, Mum."

"Behave. Drive safe. And go to bed on time."

"Yes, Mum."

"You too, Jonathan."

"Yes, Mrs. Richardson."

Ten minutes later, they were leaving. At last. He never thought this day would come. In all honesty, he assumed he would end up buried in the cornfield before she let him leave.

Arlen was a small town and it didn't take long for them to end up in the middle of nowhere.

"How do you know where you're going?"

"I don't."

"Don't joke."

"I'm not! I have no idea. I'm just following the signs."

She gave him a _look_ and reached over to fiddle with the radio. He doubted that anything would come in, to be honest, given their location.

Sure enough, nothing came in. Not even the news. Great.

"Probably for the best. Eventually someone's going to look for your grandmother."

"No, they won't. If she caught people up there, she'd come at them with her cane and threats of damnation. No one's stupid enough to go up there now."

Fortunately for him. Then again, it wasn't as though anyone really liked the old witch. There were plenty of people that could have done it. Or it could have been an accident. But they'd blame him on principle.

"Good." She rummaged through her backpack and came up with a book. "Since we have no radio, shall we have some poetry?"

Poetry sounded fine. After all, they had a long drive.

**_I could sing._ **

_You keep your mouth shut, you can't sing to save your life._

**_That hurt._ **

_It's true._

Kitty started flipping through the book.

"Any preferences?"

"Surprise me."

_Thought you didn't like surprises._

**_It's a poem. It's harmless._ **

She continued flipping until she found something suitable.

"Once upon a midnight dreary…"

THE END


	25. Road Trip, Pt. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This arc is not posted in any particular order. So they can think they'll be in Gotham tomorrow, but that may not happen.

"I hate grimy hotels."

"I've been in worse."

"I haven't." He looks at the bed. Hopefully there aren't bedbugs in it. "Maybe it'd be better to sleep in the truck."

"In this weather? Not bloody likely. I'm in the shower now."

He finishes toweling his hair and pulls a grey t-shirt over his head. He doesn't want to sleep on that bed. He doesn't really want to sleep in here at all, actually.

He slips under the covers and closes his eyes, listening to the shower running, the rain outside, the banging of a bed against the wall…seriously?

Barbarians.

After a few more minutes of that, he smacks the wall. The bed stops moving. Good. That was annoying. And unnecessary.

After a minute, the shower shuts off and the only noise is the rain. They should reach Gotham tomorrow. He'll be glad of that, he really will. He hates driving and Scarecrow keeps trying to take control.

**_I wanna drive!_ **

_No._

**_Come on._ **

_No. You have no self-control, you'll get us pulled over._

**_Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee_ **

_Stop that._

**_No. Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee_ **

_Scarecrow!_

**_Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease?_ **

_Let me think about this._

**_Yes!_ **

_Request denied on grounds of idiocy._

**_You bastard._ **

_Yes._

Scarecrow goes somewhere to sulk and Jonathan folds his hands behind his head. The bed in the other room has begun hitting the wall again. God, why?

Scarecrow starts laughing and Jonathan pulls the too-fluffy pillow over his face. Shut up, shut up, _shut up for god's sake…_

**_Want me to shut them up?_ **

_No._

They should have stayed at the Bates Motel a little ways back. It was empty. But, really, who was dumb enough to stay _there_?

"Really?"

"I know, I know. I hit the wall, but they started again."

She sighs.

"I hate people."

**_We could make it a contest._ **

_Shut up, Scarecrow._

**_Just saying._ **

She smacks the wall. Someone smacks back. Scarecrow lapses into hysterics.

"Dammit."

Yes. He'll be glad to get to Gotham. Hopefully their apartment will have slightly thicker walls.

THE END


	26. Road Trip, Pt. 3

Kitty wonders how Jonathan can be comfortable. He's fallen asleep against the window, his glasses halfway down his nose, and the seatbelt cutting into his neck. She'd move him, but she's speeding and she doesn't want him to throw a fit.

"Kitty?" The speedometer is broken. Honest.

"Yes?"

"Are you speeding?"

"No."

"Why does it say eighty?"

"It's broken."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Okay."

She eases off the gas until he looks like he's going back to sleep. Then she hits it again and scatters a flock of crows that were sitting in the road. Unfortunately, the sudden fluttering and cawing startles him awake again and his glasses fall off his face. Oops.

"What'd you hit?"

"I didn't hit anything. Go back to sleep."

He unbuckles his seat belt-is that…risky behaviour?-and flops across the seats in a half-ball.

"Night."

"I don't think that's safe."

"Don't speed, then."

Humph.

"Whatever."

He yawns and looks up at the speedometer.

"You are speeding!"

"I am not, it's broken!"

"It doesn't feel like it's broken."

"Just don't look, then."

He shakes his head and closes his eyes again.

"Please don't drive us into a pole. Or pass a policeman. Or hit anything. Or-"

"Be quiet and go to sleep, I'm trying to drive."

He shuts up. She decides to ease off the gas again, just until he falls asleep.

After that, though, she makes no promises.

THE END


	27. Scar Survey

He doesn't know how she did it. But somehow, someway, she talked him into stripping (well, taking his shirt off, anyway) and letting her draw him for her art class.

"Is this really necessary?"

"It was either you or one of the male models, and I hate drawing them."

"Why?"

"I don't know. You're easier to draw, anyway-lots of sharp angles."

"Thanks so much."

"I've tried to feed you up, don't blame me."

He sighs and wishes she'd let him read, at least. But no, he has to lie on the couch and _not move a muscle._

He's so grateful he took art history instead.

After a while, the scratching of the pencil stops. Good. Can he move now? He has a cramp in his left shoulder.

"Done." Hallelujah. "Not bad. She won't fail me for it, anyway."

He holds his hand out for the pad. If he had to lay here for an hour, she can show him what it looks like. It's only fair, after all.

Not bad. She's good with the little details. It's a little creepy, really.

"Where'd you get this?" Her finger, warm and slightly gritty from the lead, traces a scar on his lower back. "Doesn't look like a claw mark."

"It isn't." He shivers a little. "I tripped over a coffee table and landed on a doorstop." A crane-shaped doorstop, but he'll keep that tidbit to himself. "Granny was angry with me."

Her hands are suddenly between his shoulders. What's she doing…god, _right_ there.

"What about these?" One hand brushes across his left shoulder. "Birds?"

"Probably." _Don't stop._ "I don't remember."

"Roll over."

Why?

Oh, all _right_ , if he must.

He rolls over and realizes how stiff he actually was. Oh, _oww_.

"Jesus, Jonathan."

"What?"

"Where'd you get all these?"

Birds, bullies, and Granny. And a few actual accidents.

He shrugs and closes his eyes. A second later she traces a small zig-zag scar on his ribs.

"This one?"

"Birds."

She brushes her finger across his throat. That _tickles_ , what's she doing?

"What about this?"

What…oh. He'd forgotten about that one, actually. It's old. It didn't take him long to learn to curl into a ball when she locked him in.

"Birds again. It wasn't bad, but it got infected."

"God."

He shrugs again and feels her hands move across his chest and stomach. Sometimes she'll ask about one-the scar on his stomach, for instance. (Pocket knife. Could have been worse.)

"I worry about you sometimes, love."

Sometimes? Try all the time.

"Mm."

"Thanks for letting me draw you."

That gives him an idea.

"Since I did let you draw me-fairly reluctantly, really-it's only fair that you do something for me."

"Oh?"

He rolls over and makes himself comfortable.

"That massage was very nice."

She tousles his hair.

"Fair's fair."

Indeed.

THE END


	28. Road Trip, Pt. 4

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me."

The truck shuddered, chugged, and the needle made its way past 'empty'. God dammit.

**_Take advantage of this! You're in the middle of nowhere!_ **

_What?_

**_God, you're sheltered. Don't you know what you're supposed to do in a car in the middle of nowhere?_ **

_We are out of gas. It is late. So get your mind out of the gutter or shut up._

**_You are boring._ **

"I told you so."

"Yes, yes, I know."

"Scarecrow didn't plan this, did he?"

**_Oh, yeah, something goes wrong and it's my fault._ **

_It usually is._

"No. He can't drive."

**_Yet._ **

"Look, it wasn't that far back. I'll just walk back with the gas can."

"No."

Huh? Why not? It was literally half an hour's walk!

"Kitty…"

"Don't you know what happens when you get out of the car?"

"Yes. I get gas."

"No! You get killed. Either I go with you, or you stay in the car."

She was not going with. There was no reason for them to both go, and besides, someone had to stay with the truck. He didn't relish coming back and finding the parts stolen out of it. Or finding the whole thing gone.

"No."

"Yes."

This could only end one way.

* * *

Dammit. She'd talked him into it. He had no idea how she'd done it, but somehow she had convinced him to stay in the truck until it was light out. Whatever. However she'd done it, here they were, in the car, with the doors locked. This was ridiculous. He could have been back by now…what was that?

"Kitty. Kitty, what's that?"

"What's what…I don't know."

He felt her sit up. What was that? It was a light, he knew that, but who was stupid enough to be on a midnight stroll out here? Maybe they'd run out of gas, too.

Then he spotted the knife. Oh, dear god, Kitty was right. She would never let him hear the end of this, never.

"Um…"

"Can he get in?"

"I have no idea."

The walker moved closer and he ducked down, dragging Kitty with him.

**_I don't wanna die!_ **

_Join the club._

There was a soft scraping noise on the hood. Shit, he knew they were there, he'd seen them…

They stayed there, listening to the on-again-off-again scraping noise on the hood for the rest of the night.

* * *

The scraping left off around sunrise, but it was another hour before they were brave enough to get out of the car. Jonathan didn't see anything, and for a few minutes he wondered if they'd imagined the whole thing. Somehow.

"Jonathan."

"What?"

"Look."

He looked. Hanging precariously off the left headlight was a hook. And there was blood on it.

"I'm coming with you for gas."

"Sure."

To hell with the truck. He hated it anyway.

He'd never been more grateful to be driving again.

"I told you so."

"You told me so."

"Wonder who it was?"

"An escaped lunatic, I'm sure." He reached for the dial, hoping against hope that they had a signal. Wait, wait…yes! The news. Great.

"…just in! Jonny 'The Hook' Jones has recently escaped from Lovecraft Asylum. Be on your guard…"

Never mind. Silence was good.

"Think we should call the police?"

"No."

"Okay."

THE END


	29. NyQuil

"I got you some ice cream, the stuff to make that noodle soup, and some NyQuil."

NyQuil? What's that?

"Huh?"

"You've never taken it?"

"No…"

"Luck…" She cuts herself off. "It'll help you sleep. I got sick right after we moved and it worked like a charm."

"What were you going to say before?"

"Nothing."

"Yes, you were. You said 'luck'. Why?"

"Don't be so suspicious, love. How about supper?"

That does nothing to reassure him. Nothing at all.

* * *

The NyQuil is green. It doesn't look good, it doesn't smell good-what he can smell of it, anyway-and it has a nasty goopy texture.

He wants none of it.

"Come on, love. It'll help, I promise."

Fine. It can't be any worse than McDonald's.

He takes the cup from her, grimaces, and downs it.

**_ BLECH! _ **

What is she trying to do, poison him? That's not cold medicine! That's arsenic! Or antifreeze! Wait, no. Not antifreeze. Antifreeze is supposed to be sweet.

He brushes past her and tries to spit out whatever's left. It doesn't help and he ends up downing three glasses of water and swishing with mouthwash twice. Ugh. Never again, never.

"You could have warned me."

"You wouldn't have taken it."

Damn right he wouldn't have taken it!

"No."

"It'll help." she soothes. Suure it will. It'll kill him and he'll never be sick again.

"It better."

She shakes her head and shoos him off to bed.

"It will. Give it half an hour."

Humph. If it doesn't work, he'll never trust her again. Or at least he'll never let her forget this.

He settles down under the covers, almost hoping it _doesn't_ work so that he can hold it against her.

Ten minutes pass, then fifteen, then twenty…it's not going to work. Hah.

Why can't he keep his eyes open?

Zzz…

* * *

All right, so it worked. But he's feeling better today, he doesn't need anymore.

So why is she straddling him, the bottle in one hand and the little cup in the other?

"Come on, you'll get better faster."

"I don't need it. Let me up."

"No. Now you can either drink it or I can pour it down your throat."

No.

He keeps his mouth shut and shakes his head. He's not drinking that again, and that's final.

"Jonathan…"

"No."

"Love…come on. Please?"

He hates it when she does that.

"No."

She frowns, measures out the dose, and sets the bottle down. What's she doing?

"You will take it. And that's final."

No. He is not taking that vile concoction again, not if he's at death's door.

He really doesn't have a chance. Before he can prepare himself, she presses the cup against his mouth and pours the stuff down his throat. Dear god, she was serious!

Coughing and sputtering, he reaches for his water glass while she climbs off of him and goes to rinse the cup out. He'll never doubt her again! That was awful!

"Night, Jonathan." she calls. He scowls at the bathroom door and makes himself comfortable beneath his blankets. Humph.

THE END


	30. Ceiling Fan

_Fwom-fwom-fwom-fwom._

The blurry ceiling fan seems to be going slower than usual. Where have his glasses gone? And his textbook?

What the hell just happened?

He'd been studying-ugh, anatomy-when the book had gone one direction and he'd ended up on the bed, otherwise occupied.

"What…what was that about?"

"Overwork is bad for you."

"Yeah."

_Fwom-fwom-fwom-fwom._

She runs her fingers through his already-messy hair and gives him an absolutely _smug_ grin. That cat that got the canary, indeed.

"That was unexpected."

"That was the point."

He has the rather unnerving feeling that she planned this.

_Fwom-fwom-fwom-fwom._

That ceiling fan really needs to be replaced…

She kisses him and leans over to pick up the fallen textbook. When she sees what it was, she bursts out laughing.

"Wasn't this more effective than a textbook?"

"Uh-huh."

_Fwom-fwom-fwom-fwom._

THE END


	31. Algebra

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I make sucking at math look like an art form. And I had a teacher that looked like Jack Nicholson once. Bonus points for him being a crazy bastard. Seriously. He took great pleasure in failing us.

"RAGH!"

That didn't sound good.

He poked his head around the door and cringed. The algebra book was out.

She was on her own for that. He had shopping to do…they were out of…um…crackers…

"Kill me now!"

"Sorry Kitty, one murder was enough."

"Please!" She grasped his arms and buried her face in his tee-shirt. "Put me out of my mi-s-ery!"

"It's not that bad."

"I was fine until they put letters in! And _fractions_!"

He looked at the ceiling, found no help forthcoming, and decided then and there that _this was not fair._

"Unhand me."

"Are you going to kill me?"

"No."

"Are you going to kill the homework?"

"No."

"The teacher?"

"No."

"I need a TARDIS!"

Wait, what? What was that…right. Blue police box that defied all the known laws of…everything.

"Why?"

"So I can kill whoever thought putting letters into math was a good idea."

"No. Let go."

She finally let go and slumped over the table, feebly punching the algebra book. Fine. He'd help her just this once. Then she was on her own.

**_That's what you said last time. And the time before that._ **

"Okay. Fractions?"

"I. Hate. Fractions."

To be fair, he doesn't like them either. And the 'real life' examples they give for this are ridiculous. Who buys three hundred watermelons? Who buys more than one watermelon? Algebra teachers, apparently.

"Give it here…oh."

"Huh?"

"The book's wrong."

"What?"

"There's a typo."

If looks could kill, half the city would be dead.

"I'll kill him."

She can do that. They're out of crackers.

THE END


	32. Sleepsinging

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an actual song by The Damnwells. It's kinda nice to listen to really late at night. Takes place before they leave for Gotham.

This is it. His last night in Arlen. To be honest, he never thought this day would come. He always thought, in the back of his mind, that she would never let him leave.

Perhaps she wouldn't have. He wouldn't have put it past her to physically restrain him or outright kill him-accidentally, of course.

But no matter. She's dead and he isn't, and he's leaving in the morning.

He should be inside, staring at the cracks in the ceiling and counting the minutes until sunrise. But instead he's here, in the rotting cornfield, looking at the moon and the old scarecrow and the shadowy chapel. It's warm out, even for Arlen, and he hasn't bothered with a shirt. So he'll get bitten by mosquitoes. He'll live.

(Although that would be Granny's way of keeping him here-done to death by a mosquito!)

He sighs, taking in the warm night and the pollens. He'll come back one day, perhaps, and laugh at them all. One of them is already pregnant-wedding's next month. He knew it would happen. That's just Arlen-religious fanaticism leading to the creation of new hypocrites.

He could wake Kitty up with a few well-placed stones, perhaps. She'd grumble about the late hour but eventually come down, maybe remind him about getting bit by mosquitoes. He won't wake her-it's late and one of them has to be able to drive tomorrow-but he _could._

He stretches, feeling the last of the fading bruises and scabbed cuts, and starts back to the house. He should go to bed…but not in that room. Not again. The last few nights-it's paranoia, he knows it is-he's been hearing…things. Whispers, creaking, the low rustle of black skirts.

He hasn't slept.

He turns away from the rotting mansion, towards no-man's-land. It takes him a minute to climb up the gnarled old tree, and he earns himself more than a few new scrapes along the way, but he manages it all the same.

Kitty wakes up when he closes the window, takes one look at him, and mumbles, "Zombie attack."

What?

"Um…"

"Please don' get infected 'til tomorrow, m'tired. Nigh'."

Okay?

"Night, Kitty."

She murmurs something else that he doesn't _want_ to try to translate and rolls over. He pushes her back to her side of the bed-if the bed even has sides-and settles down on top of the covers.

Outside, the moon begins to set.

THE END


	33. Cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously. The guy is a twig. You know he's a wuss in the cold. (Although it is possible to acclimate.)

_I'M DYING._

**_You are not dying, don't be a wuss._ **

_IT'S COLD AND I'M DYING._

**_God…_ **

_I CAN'T FEEL MY FINGERS ANYMORE._

**_Should've worn gloves._ **

_I DIDN'T KNOW IT WAS GOING TO SNOW._

**_Should've watched the news. Walk faster, I'm cold._ **

_OH, SURE, YOU'RE COLD AND I'M FREEZING TO DEATH._

**_Seriously?_ **

Keys, keys, keys…KEYS! Salvation! He is not leaving the apartment until July.

He stumbles in, shivering and unable to feel anything at all, and somehow manages to drop the bags on the counter.

He leaves them there and goes to get changed and hide under the covers, where it's warm.

_COLD COLD COLD COLD._

**_You embarrass me, you know that? It's not that bad._ **

_YES IT IS YES IT IS._

**_Frosty the Snowman…_ **

_DON'T EVEN START._

**_But baby, it's cooold ouuutsiiiiiide!_ **

_SADIST!_

"Jonathan?"

Oh good, he can tell her he's sorry for dying and to drop his essay off in Professor Pigeon's box.

"Jonathan, are you…seriously?"

"I'm dying."

"It's not that cold."

"D-drop my essay in Professor Pigeon's box by Monday." He coughs. "S-sorry…"

"Don't be dramatic. You're not dying."

**_See?_ **

_SHUT UP, I'M DYING._

"If you'd eat more, you wouldn't freeze."

Hey! He's been trying, it's not his fault he got the stomach flu.

She shakes her head and pulls off her sweater, humming some Christmas carol or other. He shivers and tries to wrap himself in the blankets. Snow is evil. Snow kills. He'll be just another casualty…good bye, cruel world…

"Jonathan."

Why is she ruining his death? God!

"No."

"There is one more last-ditch effort we can make to keep you from freezing to death."

There is?

"Mm."

"Let go of the blankets."

No! They're all that stand between him and the cold! What is she trying to do, kill him?

"Jonathan." She tugs the blankets out of his hands and slips in beside him. Wait.

_Wasn't she wearing…um…clothing?_

**_SHUT UP. SHUP UP RIGHT NOW AND BE AS COLD AS YOU POSSIBLY CAN._ **

"Kitty?"

"I doubt you have hypothermia, but we can't be too careful."

"Um…"

"Warm yet?"

That's one way of putting it.

THE END


	34. Home Alone

Kitty hated to be home alone in a place like Gotham, especially at night. It wasn't as though she was dumb enough to open the door, or help a screaming neighbor, or anything like that. And it wasn't as though she was completely helpless. (Although if someone wanted to kill her, they wouldn't have to try too hard.)

No, it was just that, well…this was _Gotham_. The odds of having a third-degree rapist for a neighbor were huge. They did have one, in fact, down the hall. That didn't make being alone seem like a great idea. Normally she wasn't, but someone had called in sick and Jonathan had taken their shift. And she _really_ wished he hadn't done that.

She'd started out in their bedroom, intending to just go to sleep. She had a test tomorrow, after all. Sleep was good. And if she was asleep, she wouldn't notice that she was alone. But she'd spent twenty minutes jumping at small noises and being convinced that there was a psychopath hiding in the kitchen.

So now here she was, on the couch, channel surfing. Well, what little 'surfing' she could do with the limited channels. Maybe she should just go back to bed…

_ Thunka-thunka. _

What was that?

She got up, wrapped her blanket tightly around herself, and went into the kitchen. A good cup of tea would work wonders. Not to mention that it would give her an excuse to turn on all the lights.

Ohh, she wished Jonathan was home. He _would_ have to pick tonight to be nice!

_ Thunka-thunka. _

It was coming from the hallway, she decided. Maybe somebody was carrying a piece of furniture upstairs.

Or dragging a body upstairs.

The kettle screamed and she jumped before hurrying to fetch it. Just the kettle. For heaven's sake, she was acting like a baby.

A very sensible baby, she decided. After all, only an idiot would go out there and _look_. Especially with her being a woman and all. She was staying right here, by the TV, and not putting one toe out that door.

_ Pzap. _

Where had the lights gone? They'd been on a second ago! God dammit. Could this night get any worse?

She made her way back to the sofa and curled up with her mug to wait.

_ Thunka-thunka. _

God, what was that noise? Why wouldn't it stop? And why couldn't the power come back on?

The peephole! Why hadn't she thought of that sooner?

She shuffled to the door, smacked into the hall table-oww, that would leave a bruise, and got on tip-toe to see out.

She couldn't see a damn thing, but the noise was louder now, and more frequent. She stayed glued to the door.

_Thunka-thunka. Thunka-thunka._

There was the sound the sound of something being dragged down the hallway. Then there was a knock on the door.

She sprang back and scuttled towards the sofa. She was not about to open that door. They could drag their corpse by themselves, thank you very much!

Whoever it was didn't knock again and the dragging noise started back up. Kitty did not move from the couch, even after the power came back.

* * *

All right, maybe grabbing the baseball bat when the door opened was silly. But after tonight, she didn't care what was silly.

"Kitty, I…what's with the bat?"

"You didn't hear the noises." She dropped it and hugged him instead. "It sounded like someone was dragging a body up here."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"You didn't hear it!" she insisted. He rolled his eyes.

"No one would be stupid enough to drag a body through an apartment building. What are you doing up, anyway? I thought you'd be asleep."

Had he not heard her the first time? There had been _noises_! If he expected her to sleep through that, he needed his head examined.

"Jon-a-than." She shook him a little. "The power went out and there were _noises_."

"Oh. So you were scared."

No, _really_? Where on _earth_ had he gotten _that_ idea?

"Yes!"

"Come along."

Huh?

"Where?"

"Out there."

"No."

"Nothing was out there. I'll show you. I didn't see anything on my way up."

Fine. But she didn't have to like it.

The hallway was dim and she wanted to go back inside, where she could lock the door and hide under the covers.

"See? Nothing. No trail of blood or anything."

Of course there wasn't a trail of blood! If someone was dragging a body, they'd stuff it in a garbage sack or something! God.

"I still heard something."

"Someone probably found a nice rug in the alley or something. It happens."

Humph.

She was just about to go back in when she spotted someone standing at the end of the hall. She didn't recognize them, and she knew just about everyone on this floor, whether she wanted to or not.

"Who's that?"

He shrugged.

"A neighbor."

"I don't know him."

She didn't like the look of him, either. He was wearing a long coat and a weird hat. She had to admit, he looked rather like Jack the Ripper.

"Let's go in."

"Best idea you've had all night."

Who had dragged who out here again?

The Jack the Ripper look-alike started down the hall towards them. Nope, nope, not tonight. She had no desire to be murdered tonight.

She dragged Jonathan into the flat and locked the door. He gave her a skeptical look.

"Are you feeling all right?"

"I don't like him."

"That's normal."

She stuck her tongue out at him when he wasn't looking.

"I mean it. He gives me a bad feeling."

"Women's intuition?" he said sarcastically. "Kitty…"

"Scoff all you like! When he turns out to be an escaped serial killer, I shall say I told you so and then you can't laugh."

He chuckled and pulled his work shirt over his head.

"Wouldn't dream of it." There was a knock on the door. Kitty squeaked and Jonathan rolled his eyes. "They can come back tomorrow."

Or not at all, that would be better.

She went to see who it was, at least. And was immediately sorry.

The man from the end of the hall was standing at the door. Kitty retreated to the bedroom and shut the door.

"Who is it?"

"The man from the hall."

"Mm."

He knocked again. Jonathan pulled a sweater on and went to open the door. Idiot! Did he want to get his throat cut?

"What are you doing?"

"Telling him to go away."

"Don't open the door!"

"For heaven's sake! He's probably just drunk or something."

Or an escaped psycho!

Fine. He could go and get himself killed, but he'd better not come back to haunt her. She'd get an exorcist!

The door opened and she heard them talking. Soon enough, the door closed and Jonathan came back in, looking none the worse for wear.

"I told you. Drunk. Now will you calm down?"

"No."

"Whatever." He shook his head. "I am going to bed. Are you coming, or are you going to panic all night?"

Panic, indeed! She thought she'd been remarkably rational about the whole thing.

* * *

It was around one in the morning when Kitty was startled awake by a noise in the hall. Shit, shit…

She really didn't want to get up. She would much rather hide under the covers and hope for the best. But Jonathan wasn't moving and the noise wasn't stopping.

Fine. She'd get up and look. But she didn't have to like it. And she would haunt him if something happened to her!

She couldn't see anyone in the hall, but the noise was still going on. Perhaps it was someone's dog? Fine. The dog would be fine until morning. She wasn't about to open the door.

She went back to bed after grabbing her baseball bat.

"Kitty?"

"Go back to sleep, love."

"Mm-hm."

Lucky him-he didn't seem to hear the noise. She couldn't hear it so well now, what with the bedroom door shut, but still.

* * *

She was still awake when the alarm went off.

"Well? Did you get any sleep last night?"

"Sure." Coffee… "Did you?"

"Of course. See you later."

"Bye."

Who cared. Coffee.

She heard the door open, but it didn't close. Now what? She was tired, dammit! If something was broken, it wasn't getting fixed until she was awake.

"Jonathan?"

"I'll never doubt you again."

Oh, god, he was sleepwalking. Or something.

She went over to the door to see what was wrong and stopped cold.

Lying in the hallway was a severed finger.

THE END


	35. We Looked Like Giants

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written before, and not related to, the multi-chapter story.

"Kitty, I have no idea what I'm doing."

"Relax, love."

"That's not helpful."

"Do you trust me?"

He bites his lip-she hates it when he does that, he can get her to do anything then-and finally nods.

"Yes."

"Then relax."

"I'm nervous."

"Shh. That's normal."

"I hate being nervous."

"Shh. There's no reason to be nervous. Just-hey. Hey, look at me." He does. "I'm not going to laugh at you or anything. You know that. Don't you?"

"Yes."

It's quick, habitual. Genuine, then. He always takes his time with a lie-only a few seconds, but enough that anyone who knows him well can pick it up.

"I promise not to dig out the leather yet." His expression is priceless and she almost regrets that. Almost. "Only joking. Calm down, Jonathan, you'll give yourself a heart attack."

He bites his lip again and looks at the floor.

"Kitty…"

"Shh. Quit thinking about it. Just. Trust. Me."

"But…"

Oh, this is ridiculous.

"Shut up."

He opens his mouth to say something else and she kisses him.

At last. Silence.

THE END


	36. Hatter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jervis creeps me out. The B:TAS one not so much, but the other ones…no, thank you. Based upon a horrible dream. That's what I get for reading true creepy stories at night when I have a rapist living next door.

She hated working overtime in Gotham. It wasn't that she minded the money, but coming home after dark…it just wasn't safe.

Jonathan usually offered to pick her up, but sometimes he was unavailable and besides, she could take care of herself! She wasn't helpless, after all. Walk quickly but confidently, don't make eye contact, and if grabbed, scream fire (nobody would come if she screamed rape, sorry fuckers) and kick them in the balls. Oh, and carry her house key like a shank to gouge out eyes.

But that wasn't always the problem. No, lately the problem had been their new neighbor, Jervis Tetch. He'd latched onto her for reasons unknown-maybe because they hailed from the same country?-and had horrible personal space issues. _And_ this creepy, toothy grin that reminded her of a serial killer.

And now here he was, conveniently the only other person in the elevator, just staring at her with that big, toothy grin.

"Hello, Kitty."

"Hi, Jervis." Stare straight ahead. Act natural. "Late night for you too, huh?"

"A little."

Was it just her, or had he sidled an inch or so closer when she wasn't looking?

He was little, but he was still taller than her by about three inches, though that ridiculous top hat made him look taller. Not that it mattered-she would have thought Jonathan would be a pushover, and look at what happened to Mrs. Keeney.

Good god, look at what had happened to Mrs. Keeney.

She gripped her key a little tighter and repressed a cringe when she heard his shoes _sliiide_ another inch closer.

If she extended her elbow, she could probably touch him.

"The elevator certainly is slow tonight."

"Yes." she said. "It is."

"Ah, the misfortune of living on the top floor."

"Yes."

They were only halfway up. He'd have plenty of time to subdue her.

_That's it! You bitch Clarice, I'm never taking your shift again! Find a babysitter and quit breeding!_

He took another inch and her finger shot out and pushed the stop button.

"I think I'll walk." she said, trying to be cheerful. "Good for your health. Keep in shape and all." She heard herself give a nervous giggle. "See you later, Jervis."

"Good bye, my dear."

She left the elevator quicker than she'd intended and made a gagging face. 'My dear'? Nobody called her 'my dear'. Not Jonathan, not her parents, nobody.

Ugh. Five flights of stairs to go. But better than sharing the elevator with that guy.

She had just reached the top of the first one when she heard the elevator ding and somebody with a light, quick step got out. She glanced down at the first opportunity and felt her stomach drop.

A little ways behind her was a large top hat.

Time to quicken pace.

Behind her, the light, quick step quickened pace as well. It stayed just a little ways behind her, but every so often it would get a bit closer.

There! Home. God, she hoped Jonathan didn't have to work late tonight…

She got the door open just as the top hat appeared on the landing and darted inside to lock the door.

"Kitty?"

Wish granted.

She slumped against the heavy door, the chain still in her fingers, and let the keys drop into the bowl on the hall table.

"Kitty, where…are you sick?" He leaned away from her. "Tell me you're not sick, you just got over a cold…do you have pneumonia?"

She hugged him.

"What is it? If you have pneumonia, get off."

"M'okay."

"What happened?"

She told him. At some point he brought her a cup of tea

_He's getting better._

and a blanket.

"I see."

"It's ridiculous, I know." she said. "But something about him is just _wrong_."

"Want me to talk with him?"

"No."

"All right. But Kitty…" She looked up at him. "Don't get into an elevator alone with him."

"Funny, love. I had a similar idea."

THE END


	37. Conscience

It's been a month since she died. He hasn't been home much-just now and again, to keep up the illusion. He's been telling people she's ill, that her arthritis has confined her to her bed, but don't worry, there's no need to come visiting.

She never welcomed visitors anyway.

To Kitty's parents, he's slightly more truthful-well, considering the circumstances. He's confessed to them (complete with the exhausted, worried relative act) that he's not sure she'll make it through this last illness.

Kitty's mother sent him back laden down with food. Her father muttered something about good riddance that Jonathan's pretty certain he wasn't supposed to hear.

He's been keeping himself busy-packing, selling things (only little things, nothing particularly valuable, lest it draw suspicion) and avoiding going home as often as possible. The fields are messier than usual, but he doesn't care about those anymore. He's tempted, really, to set them on fire.

He hasn't slept there much. He hasn't slept much at all, actually, but what little rest he's gotten has been in Kitty's room. It's warm there, safe.

He had things to do tonight, though. Besides, he is not afraid of her. She's dead. Dead and pecked to pieces. What does he think she'll do, appear and drag him down to Hell with her? Preposterous.

It's after midnight when he stumbles up to bed and passes out, still half-dressed. He sleeps for a little over an hour before there's a horrific crack, like bones breaking, and he wakes with a start.

It's raining. Well, _raining_ isn't the right word. _This_ is an assault by nature. Large, heavy drops crash into the windows and onto the roof, determined to bore holes in the hold house. Lightning flashes outside seconds before another crack.

He's facing the window, and for some reason he's terrified to roll over and even more terrified to have his back to the door. Granny, Granny must be having her nightly prowls again…

He flops over, trying to seem as though he's still asleep. One hand lands perilously close to the edge of the bed and he inches it back, hoping he won't be seen.

After a moment, he twitches a bit and murmurs, "Granny? Wha's going on?"

And then he remembers that she's dead.

He opens his eyes. The room is empty

_Of course it's empty!_

but he can't stay in this house another minute.

He gets dressed, digs up his tattered raincoat, and makes his way downstairs. Something scuttles behind him in the darkness but he does not look to see what it is. He knows what it is-a tall, thin old woman whose eyes burn with insanity and hatred.

If he doesn't look back, she can't touch him.

He rounds the final spiral and can't help but glance up. There! There, in the shadows-a white, wizened claw of a hand clutching the banister.

He ignores the rain, ignores the wind, just hopes to God that Kitty's awake…or at least hasn't taken allergy pills. Even if she has, out here is better than in _there_.

He nearly loses his balance when he reaches the top of the tree-if he's going to be struck by lightning, it would be now-and he's frightened to let go long enough to knock.

"Jonathan…?" She's half-asleep, he can tell. "What are…oh my god!" The window flies open. "Are you insane? What's going on?"

"I can't sleep in that house." Here, in the warm room, he realizes how ridiculous this sounds. "I can't do it, m'sorry…"

"You're soaked. Stay there. Take your coat off, at least. Or everything. That might be better."

Everything? Not likely.

He does, however, take off his coat and, after a minute's deliberation, his shirt. He's colder than ever without them and it takes his shaking fingers a few minutes to untie his shoelaces.

"Here." A towel hits him in the chest. "You're not sleeping in wet jeans. Do not make me fight you on that."

"Y-you'd lose." He's not so sure he can out of them anyway. Wet denim is better than a bear trap.

"With the shape you're in?" She yawns. "N-not…not bloody likely."

If she tries it, she'll be in for a surprise.

"I can manage."

She does not look convinced.

"Then manage." She stretches out on her bed, hands gripping the headboard. "I'm not letting you in here soaked through."

"Fine."

They stare at each other for a minute before she rolls her eyes and burrows under the covers.

"If you need help, let me know."

He will not need help and that is final.

He does fight a bit with the socks, but he gets them off eventually before attempting jean removal.

He falls over about two seconds in.

"Having trouble?"

"Shut up, Kitty."

She snickers.

"Try not to wake my parents."

Great, something else to worry about.

He stays on the floor and finally manages to get them off thanks to an elaborate shimmy-flail-pull thing. By the time he's free, he's a little out of breath and flushed.

"You okay down there?"

Finally. Dry sweats. He'll never wear jeans again…

"M'okay."

"Get up, then."

He yawns and drops down on the bed. His skin's numb. The rain is no quieter in here, but at least he's not by himself.

And, more importantly, he's not _there_.

THE END


	38. The Man Upstairs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title and partial inspiration from the Voltaire song. Mostly inspired by my own woes-my across the street neighbors are drunken idiots who blast mariachi music at midnight, among other things. You know nothing of broken dreams until you see a moving truck in front of your hated neighbor's house…and realise that they're bringing in more crap. *sobs*

He arrives home wet, tired, and filled with repressed hatred towards his fellow classmates. 'Hang on, can we go over this for the thirtieth time? I was talking for the past twenty-nine.'

Prison's nice nowadays. You get books. There's worse places to go.

No matter. There's no reason to go on a murderous rampage over a chatterbox. Besides, he's done, he's got three more classes before the semester's over (yay! they can have something besides ramen soon!), he's fine.

**THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.**

He pauses in the middle of hanging his coat and looks up in disbelief. What the hell is up there? An elephant? How do you even get an elephant into a sixth-floor apartment?

"We've got new neighbors."

"Hi." He kisses her forehead. "I noticed."

"They should be done moving things soon. I just saw them hauling boxes this afternoon, though, so…"

Okay. He can cope. Nobody's quiet when they're moving. He'll still find it annoying, like he does screaming babies, but it'll stop soon.

"They can't be any worse than the last ones. How many are there?"

"Two. Man and a woman. She's pretty, he's some relation to a troll. How he got that lucky is beyond me."

"Maybe they're related."

She gives him a _look_.

"Love, I've seen things today that would send even your anti-religious self sprinting for the nearest church. Go get changed, supper's almost ready."

* * *

It's three nights later that he's awakened from a sound sleep. For a moment he has no idea what woke him. Nightmare? No, his breathing's steady. Kitty? Nope, she's flopped across his chest like a dead woman.

"Uh…uh…oh, god!"

Oh.

Oh, god, no.

He closes his eyes and tries very hard to wish himself awake. This is a dream, one of those weird, boring 'woke up and got ready for the day but didn't really' dreams.

The moaning upstairs does not stop. Come on, this just isn't _fair…_

"Harder! Harder! Right there!"

Kill him now.

"Wha's tha' racket?"

He says nothing. She'll get it eventually.

Sure enough, she rolls off him to stare at the ceiling.

"Still think they're related?"

God, he hopes not. This is bad enough.

* * *

The late night sex marathons are just the beginning. Over the next two weeks, they're treated to vacuuming at four in the morning, what must be an attempt to juggle bowling balls, and drunken karaoke.

"Prison's not so bad." he murmurs one night. "You have books now. Maybe we'd get off on justifiable homicide. Self-defense."

"God! There! Harder!"

Kitty groans and pulls her pillow over her head.

"Haven't they tried a gag? People like them."

How does she…never mind. He reaches for the broom they've taken to keeping in arm's reach and hits the ceiling. Unsurprisingly, the noise does not stop.

Perhaps if he wishes _really_ hard, on every shooting star, eyelash, and birthday candle he sees, they'll be killed horribly.

It's eleven-eleven. He'll start now.

_PLEASE, PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, SOMEBODY MURDER THOSE FUCKERS UPSTAIRS._

Nothing happens and he rolls over, pulls the pillow over his head, and hopes for more than two hours of sleep.

* * *

The neighbors move after six months. Six long months of agony and three hours of sleep. He's sure he didn't have eye circles before they moved in.

But today! Today is the first day that they're gone! Gone, gone, gone!

He comes home from work soaked through and in possibly the best mood he's been in for a while.

"Hello, Kitty!" He grabs her and swings her around. "No neighbors! For once…a full nights' sleep."

"You're suffering sleep deprivation."

"Yes." He brushes by her and grabs an apple. "But not for long!"

They're in bed by eight-oh, the glorious silence!-and by nine he's drifting off to a peaceful slumber. Ah, the sleep of the dead…

Until, from _downstairs_ , comes a shriek of, "VIRGIN MARY! FUCKING ALIEN!"

No.

No, no, please, no.

Prison's not so bad. At least there you have to shut up at night.

THE END


	39. Spring Break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kitty's not a nature person. Can't say I blame her-I'd much rather stay indoors than go play in the pollens and get eaten by mosquitos.

"God, it's hot out here."

Yeah. Sure.

He's sorry they came back here for spring break, but the apartment building was undergoing repairs-there had been a small fire and the surrounding blocks were damaged by smoke and flames.

She leans forward and plunges her arm into the pond.

"Not bad."

"Mm."

Do they know she's dead? Will they come looking for him? Maybe they should go back to the house. The less people that know they're here, the better.

He tries to concentrate on his book. It really is hot out here, but they can't go in-Mrs. Richardson told them to 'go out and get some fresh air, you look like corpses' and they're banned for an hour at least.

"I'm going swimming. Want to come?"

"Can't." he says distractedly. Then, "In what?"

"The pond, goose."

"No…you're not…um…"

Her shirt hits him in the side of the head and he glances up in time to see her shimmying out of her shorts.

"Kitty?"

SPLASH!

"Oh god, it's _cold_!"

Is she crazy? This isn't private property or anything, people come by here all the time!

**_I can't see!_ **

He ignores Scarecrow and tries to go back to his book, but there's no concentrating now.

"It's not that bad, actually." Her teeth are chattering. "I could teach you to swim. It'd be fun."

"No thanks."

"Aw, c'mon. You should learn." She paddles backwards. "And it's really, really hot outside."

"No, Kitty."

She flicks water at him and suddenly flies out of the pond.

"Something brushed my leg!"

**_WHITE. BRA._ **

_Shut up, Scarecrow._

"Probably a fish."

"You didn't tell me it was a _nature_ pond-stop laughing!"

'Nature pond'? What the hell did she think it was?

She punches him in the arm and pulls her shorts back on.

"You suck!"

"I've never seen you move so quickly, Kitty."

"It was huge! And scaly! It was a goddamn alligator!"

"You'd have lost a leg."

"I'll never go in there again."

He shakes his head and goes back to his book, ignoring Scarecrow's pleas to look over there, just one more time.

**_Dude, it's soaked! And white! Are you blind?_ **

_Without my glasses, yes. And it's too hot._

**_Oh, come on!_ **

"Would you have rescued me?"

He bites his lip, pretends to think about it.

"I don't know."

She sticks her tongue out at him and reaches over for her shirt.

"Hour's up, let's go in."

He eyes the distance between her and the water. He shouldn't, but she can swim, and…well…

Yeah, can't resist.

He moves his book further away from the water before grabbing her and throwing her in there. In hindsight, he's lucky she didn't drag him in with her.

"You suck! Get back here!"

You know, he's pretty sure he can outrun her, but she's awfully mad…

"Jonathan Crane, so help me god, I'll kill you! Now hold still!"

He makes it about ten paces before she tackles him and knocks him into a mound of dead leaves and straw.

"What the hell was that for?"

"Felt like it."

"Not funny. I could've been eaten."

"You've got a cicada in your hair."

She blanches and her hand flies up. When it meets nothing-she should know not to trust _everything_ he says by now-she grabs his shirt collar and tries to shake him. It…doesn't work out.

"You are evil."

"Yes."

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

"I was bored."

She gets up and starts stalking back to the house. You know, he really should tell her about the rather large grasshopper clinging to her shirt, but…she might not believe him.

THE END


	40. Mouse

"Three…two…one…pull!"

The couch groaned and slid across the carpet. Oh, god. They hadn't…um…it hadn't been moved since they put it here two years ago.

**_Put it back!_ **

The space behind the couch resembled a hoarder's house. There was a blue slipper-he'd been wondering where that went!-several slips of scrap paper, a worn copy of _Red Dragon_ …

"Oh god!"

What, what! Oh.

Um.

**_Eww._ **

Plastered to the wall is a very flat, very mummified mouse.

"What the hell!"

He doesn't remember them having a mouse…wait.

"Remember last Christmas, when we spent the break with your parents?"

"Yes…"

"And we came back to this weird smell and blamed the neighbor?"

"Yes…"

"Yeah."

She cringes and leans a little closer. Scarecrow wonders what would happen if they gave her a little nudge. Jonathan thinks they would not survive.

"I think it's stuck."

It looks stuck. God, that's going to stain…he'll never be able to sit over here without feeling paranoid. Never.

"We'll get the couch out, then deal with it."

_Or, rather, you will deal with it._

**_Me?_ **

_Yes, you._

**_I'm kinda busy…_ **

_Too bad!_

**_Must I?_ **

_You must._

**_You cruel monster._ **

_You have only yourself to blame._

"Ready?"

She shrugs.

"I guess."

"One…two…three…pull!"

* * *

Scarecrow gets the broomstick and makes a halfhearted sweeping motion.

The mouse refuses to come off.

_Hm._

**_It's stuck, sorry._ **

_Try something else._

**_You're enjoying this._ **

_Yes._

Asshole. He should have fed him a few nasty memories to get out of this. But it's too late. Damn.

_Try scraping it off._

**_Ick._ **

_It's stuck! You told Kitty it would be gone by the time she got back from the store. So do it._

**_Can't we just hide it?_ **

_No._

He grumbles something about leaving Jonathan to the mercy of Granny before going to fetch a ruler.

It takes a few chips, but eventually the flat little carcass falls off the wall and onto the carpet.

**_There. It's off._ **

_Great! Now get rid of it._

**_No. That's your job._ **

_But…_

Scarecrow melts back into his little corner and rubs his hands together. Jonathan can deal with this. He has better things to do.

THE END


	41. Useless Noise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from Sugarcult's 'Out of Phase'.

She comes home from work to find him curled up on the bed, pillow pulled over his head. Headache? No, the lights are on.

"Jonathan?"

"Won't stop."

She sets her stuff down and inches into the room.

"What's going on?"

"Won't shut up. Just keeps talking and talking and talking-"

"Okay." Maybe she shouldn't go in. Maybe she should go back out. It can't be that much more dangerous outside. "Jonathan, I don't…"

"He could kill you." Yeah, that's what she's afraid of, thanks. "He said he could."

If she runs now, she might be able to reach the front door.

Maybe.

"What brought that on?" It's still Jonathan right now, she can tell. No reason to run. But no reason to go all the way in there, either.

"I don't know." He sits up and she steps back. "I don't know what goes on inside his head."

"You're scaring me."

"Am I?" He tilts his head to the side and she _knows_ that he's gone.

"Hullo, Scarecrow."

He grins but makes no move to stand up. There's nothing to use to fight him off, not that she can reach in time.

"Hiya, Kitty." There's a little growl to his voice that makes her shudder. "How are ya?"

"What's up?"

"Oh, you know. Jonny's a little upset about that murder the other day…oops! Did I say that out loud?"

She doesn't say anything. He takes the glasses off and flicks off the lamp. The crappy blinds let the last of the sun in, bathing him in stripes.

She could run. She's got an advantage now, with his glasses off like this.

"He wants me to leave." He pouts and stands up, head still cocked to the side. "After all I've done for the little bastard! He wouldn't be here without me."

"He knows that, Scarecrow." Calm voice, palms up. "He's just upset, he'll come around." Or not, but he doesn't need to know that.

"Oh, it's you. He likes you more than me." _Gee, wonder why?_ "That's gratitude for you."

"Look…"

"I'm not surprised." He stretches, joints snap-crackling as he bends backwards. "I mean, he is a bit of a wuss. Doncha think?"

She takes another step back, out into the hall. He'd catch her now, she knows he would. But he doesn't seem interested in _doing_ anything. Maybe it's just talk…

"But it still hurts, ya know? _I_ was there. _You_ weren't."

"Scarecrow…"

"What _is_ it with you, anyway? The looks, the normality, the lack of homicidal tendencies?"

Probably the latter, but she's not about to say that.

"It's not like I'm _trying_ to rack up a body count. I'm just trying to watch out for him."

"You killed my English teacher."

"And then Jonny started on the bitching and I started thinking that maybe he really should learn to get along without you."

He starts forward and stops dead in his tracks. She reaches down for her backpack-heavy textbooks are better than nothing-but he doesn't start walking again.

"Kitty?"

That's Jonathan's voice, a little hoarse but definitely not Scarecrow. She lets the backpack drop.

"What was that?"

"I don't know. You're okay, he didn't do anything?"

"No." It's safe to go in now, she's pretty sure. "No, he didn't. Jonathan, what…"

"He can't be here. Not if he's going to start…Kitty, I can't…"

"You can't see anyone now." She turns the light back on and double-checks the blinds. "Not after…everything."

"But he can't stay here!"

"You could always ask Jervis for drugs. But no heroin, that's bad for you."

"Kitty-!" He puts his glasses back on. "Look. Maybe we should…erm…other people…"

"Well, _that_ was convincing." She takes a deep breath. "I trust you. No,"-she puts a finger against his lips-"I don't trust Scarecrow. But I trust you."

"What if I can't…I got lucky this time. He doesn't always go quietly."

Yeah. She gathers that, thanks.

"I think if he really wanted to hurt me, he would have done it."

"He likes the sound of his own voice, that's all."

"More than the idea of killing me, apparently."

He shudders, shakes his head roughly.

"Kitty, I…"

"I can take care of myself." Maybe. "I trust you."

"I don't trust myself."

She shrugs, steps back and pulls off the ugly plastic work sweater at last.

"We'll work on it. Okay? You and me."

"What if I…"

He doesn't finish and she doesn't make him. She does, however, privately decide to start keeping that bottle of mace on her person at all times.

Can't be too careful.

THE END


	42. Notes

She wakes with a stuffed nose, a splitting headache, and nails in her throat. Looks like that dry cough and those frequent sniffles finally evolved.

She rolls over for her water bottle and spots a notecard and a bag of cough drops propped against it.

_I'll be home late-somebody called in sick. Drink lots of water and STAY IN BED. –Jonathan_

It's a little freaky that he can be so quiet. And it's very annoying that he can be so bossy on paper.

Just to spite him, she gets out of bed and shuffles to the kitchen for coffee. To her surprise and dismay, there's a post-it note on the coffee maker.

_Sick people don't need coffee. Have orange juice and go back to bed._

The coffee pot is off. And it's empty.

She slumps against the counter and throws a rude gesture towards the note. No coffee…she'll die.

She's not even a little surprised to see a note on the orange juice bottle.

_That's better._

You know, she's tempted to cough on his pillow or something. She won't, because he'll wind up with pneumonia, but she's tempted.

He's thought of that, apparently-there's another note on his pillow.

_If you get me sick, I'll make it worse on purpose. So don't._

But…but…he denied her coffee.

She flops down, coughing thickly, and reaches for the remote. Maybe there's something on Cartoon Network or something.

Paper crunches under her palm and she wonders what he's bitching about _now_.

_Have you ever heard of sleeping through the cold?_

Fuck him. And most certainly not in the literal sense.

* * *

Her upset about the coffee vanishes around lunchtime, to be replaced with a new, unprecedented fury.

She'd been planning on having macaroni and cheese for lunch, but she can't find it. She can't find anything except a box of chicken noodle soup, actually. And then she sees the box with the bike lock wrapped around it. And the note. Of course.

_You. Are. SICK. Are you trying to sabotage your health? Are you trying to get me sick? I have the keys, so don't even bother looking. You'll thank me later._

She'll kill him later. Her cookies are in that box.

She makes the chicken noodle, trying to ignore that he probably got the 'ban all foods except like four things' from her. It's still not fair.

He hasn't locked up the Sprite, has he?

No. He's left commentary, but she can get at it.

_Water's better for you, you know._

Too bad.

She swipes one from the fridge, now just because she _can_ , and shuffles back to bed for a nap.

* * *

Come nightfall, she's in desperate need of a shower. It's hot in this flat. She can't even muster up pretend surprise when she finds a note stuck to the knobs.

_Not too hot, it'll only make it worse._

Good thing she was planning on a cool shower anyways.

Ahh. Much better. She needed that, she really did.

When's he going to be home, anyway? It's already seven.

There's a little yellow square on her toothbrush that says, _Take NyQuil and don't wait up._

Ha! Joke's on him, they have no NyQuil!

She opens the medicine cabinet to get her toothpaste and her jaw drops open in horror. Sitting right there in the front is a brand-new bottle of NyQuil with a note that says, _Drink me or else_ on it.

This is how murders happen.

She ignores it just because she can, brushes her teeth, and goes off to bed. After shoving the bottle to the side so he won't find out she didn't take it until later.

* * *

She wakes up coughing.

"You didn't take it, did you."

Dammit.

"Time s'it?"

"Midnight. There was a stabbing on the train, we all had to be interviewed."*

Her throat is _killing_ her and she downs the rest of the water bottle. He leaves the room and comes back with something in his hand.

"I told you to take it."

"I'm not that bad…"

"You sound like you have the plague."

She kinda feels like she has the plague. _Fine_. She'll take it. Grudgingly, but she'll take it.

For once she's grateful for her stuffy nose-she can barely taste the stuff going down. She accepts the new water bottle though, to get the goopy texture out of her mouth.

"Ugh."

"How are you feeling otherwise?"

"Miserable. No coffee."

"Couldn't be helped. Go to sleep."

But…coffee.

Fine, she'll do it. But there had better be coffee in the morning or she'll kill him.

THE END

*It's Gotham. It's not even exciting anymore, it's just a pain.


	43. Train

He found out early on that she's good with public transport. Thank god-Arlen didn't even have a school bus.

He also found out early on that she can't reach the straps for when you're stuck standing. It's close-her fingertips can brush the fabric-but not close enough.

"Can't reach?"

"Shut up. I'm fine."

He smirks and takes no small pleasure in the fact that he _can_ reach the handle, and does so just because.

When a sharp curve nearly knocks her off her feet, she grips his arm and guides it upwards until his fingers touch the cloth loop.

"What?"

"Hold that."

He holds it and she grabs onto him as a makeshift handle.

"I can reach now."

Fine. If it'll keep her from falling down-and probably dragging him down with her-he'll just stay here.

THE END


	44. Visitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a terrible person. I don't find it amusing when your kid runs over at random times to say hi. I don't have kids. I do, however, have things to do. (A family friend did know a free-roaming toddler in the building, so this is slightly based on truth. Said toddler was nearly mauled by a dog when it opened an unlocked door, causing the parents to put a stop to its wanderings. Watch your kids!)
> 
> This has been 'Reasons I'm Going to Hell', with Scary Scarecrows.

He's working on a paper when there's a knock on the door.

Who the hell can that be? They're not friends with their neighbors. Maybe there's been an accident…but shouldn't there be panicked sounds? There were panicked sounds when someone had a heart attack on their way past Keeney Manor-their husband had come sprinting up, calling for help. Granny had not been pleased.

He'll just ignore it. Probably someone peddling religion. Or Girl Scouts, who sell overpriced, inedible cookies.

Ugh.

Whoever it is knocks again. He glares at the door. If they knock again, so help him…

KNOCK-KNOCK!

That's it! He should not have to put up a 'college student at work' sign! He takes a deep breath, counts to ten, and opens the door.

There's no one there. Why is there no one there.

"Hi!" He looks down. "Hi!"

Why is there an unattended…two?...year-old on his doorstep? Does he look like a babysitter?

"Hi."

It waves one sticky, chubby palm and narrowly avoids wiping what he's hoping is chocolate on his jeans. It cannot stay here.

"Where are your parents?"

It giggles.

"Hi!"

Great.

"Go home."

He shuts the door and is just turning back to the table when it knocks again. And again. And again, until it's just incessantly banging on the door.

He endures it for about five minutes before flinging the door open, grabbing its wrist, and dragging it downstairs to the manager's office. They can deal with the little monster.

* * *

Unfortunately, the toddler now remembers where he lives. And since its parents don't really seem to monitor it, it's over every. Single. Day.

It doesn't matter if he ignores it, tells it to leave…nothing works. All it does is bang on the door and say, "Hi!" in that horrid squeaky voice.

If this is what children do all day, he does not want any.

Kitty doesn't believe him. Well, she does, but she doesn't believe it's that bad.

"It's a two year-old, love. Just don't answer the door."

"I've tried! It just keeps knocking. Where are its parents?"

"Probably at home, sleeping."

"Who lets their child wander around being an irritant?"

"Everyone." She pops a peppermint in her mouth. "Come on, we're too young to be interrupted by kids."

* * *

The final straw comes when it starts beating on the door and shrieking, "Hi! Hi! Hi!" _right_ when he's finally motivated to work on his English essay.

He flings the door open, grabs the little beast by the wrist, and demands to know _where it came from_.

Unsurprisingly, it only knows the one word.

He's about to drag it downstairs yet again when someone calls, " **David!** Let go of my son right now!"

He drops the wrist and turns.

"You're the mother?" She ignores him in favor of cooing over the toddler. "Ma'm. I found him wandering the hall. Are you the mother."

"Yes…David, you're a naughty boy, running from Mommy!"

Ugh. Is this mother protocol? Try as he might, he can't envision Kitty sounding like this towards anything.

"He's been banging on my door for the several weeks, Ma'm."

"Thank you for minding him."

"I am not your offspring's babysitter, Ma'm. If he disrupts me again, I'll be calling child services and reporting you for neglect."

"He likes you!" Sure enough, the toddler is squirming in his mother's arms, chanting its incessant 'hi! hi!' like some sort of horrid bird. "I'll try to keep him in…"

"You _will_ keep him in. One more disruption, Ma'm. That's it. Good afternoon."

He locks the door behind him and returns to his essay.

There is no more knocking after that.

THE END


	45. Chatterbox

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear people that talk in class: SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTHS. Seriously, did you miss the 'note-passing' lesson we all learned in elementary? And no, texting doesn't count because the clicky-clicky is almost as annoying. Notes. On paper. Or be alone for an hour, it's not that bad.

Why. Why him. Why does this _always_ happen to him?

His new neighbor has a disorder that compels her to talk. And talk. And talk some more.

He doesn't even have to interact-she'll talk at him, the guy in front of them, and the girl behind them. And honest to god, if there weren't witnesses, he'd hurl her from the window and laugh as she hit the ground.

But there's too many people, and there's no way to pass that off as an accident. Can he mute her another way? Pen through the throat? She could fall…odds are one in a million, but accidents happen…

No, it's too unlikely. Damn.

Asking her politely-and then not so politely-to shut up only got her to leave _him_ alone. Everyone else was still fair game, and he gave up and wished for a sudden bout of laryngitis. Or throat cancer. Whichever will last longer.

One day-the week before the exam, when they're being told what will be on it (nothing important, it's only fifty percent of their grade!), he finally snaps. And Scarecrow takes advantage of that moment of weakness to offer assistance…of a sort.

 **_"_ ** **_If you don't shut up, I'll shut you up."_ **

She looks at him, eyes wide, and her mouth snaps closed.

Scarecrow winks at her and settles back down where he came from.

The rest of the period is spent in silence.

THE END


	46. Fun

"This is hideous, let's go home."

"You're not leaving until you try candyfloss."

"It's pink and fluffy."

"It's sugar."

"My teeth hurt."

She pulls him along down the midway.

"Come on, it won't kill you."

"Yes it will."

But it's too late now. She's found a vendor and gotten a small one.

"What do I do with it?"

"You eat it."

"How."

"Oh, for…here." She plucks a piece off and sticks it in his mouth. "There, you've tried it and didn't die."

He chokes it down. Ugh. This is awful.

"No more."

Regardless of what he thinks, he ends up nibbling at it as they walk, more out of boredom than anything else. The taste isn't so bad, but the texture…the texture isn't very good.

"The taste is off." Kitty complains. "It should be sweeter."

"Isn't it sweet enough already?"

"No." She loops her arm through his. "You have now suffered the rite of passage known as the Fair. Congratulations for not puking on the roller coaster."

"People puke on the roller coaster?"

"Yes. Frequently."

* * *

By dinnertime, his stomach's not up to eating anything. Kitty brushes it off as too much fun, but she doesn't manage much more than crackers and Sprite.

They go to bed early, and by one in the morning they've gotten two hours of sleep. The other hours have been spent being sick.

"Never again…"

"I'll kill him. I knew it tasted off, but really…"

He groans and rolls onto his side, shivering. His stomach is feels like it's been used as a punching bag.

"Kill me now."

"Too much effort."

Never again will he go to the fair.

Never.

THE END


	47. Light Bulb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All caught up! *Fireworks and music happen* No 'We Looked Like Giants' today-sorry, but I spent the last week on my couch, in agony, because I'm not contributing to the population. SUCH bullcrap.

"Kitty? What are you doing?"

"Changing a light bulb."

He folded his arms and looked up at her. She inched a little further along the arm of the couch and stood on tiptoe.

"You're going to fall."

"I am not. Almost got it-eek!"

She lost her balance and toppled from the sofa into his arms, nearly taking them both down.

"I told you so."

"Shh."

"What did we learn from this?"

"That I keep you around for a reason."

_**OHH!** _

He sighed and set her down.

"It's something. Give me this."

He plucked the bulb from her hand and reached up to put it in.

And couldn't quite reach.

He glared at the lamp as though it was at fault for this and clambered onto the arm of the couch.

"Not one word."

"If you fall, I don't think I can catch you."

"I'm not going to fall."

She raised an eyebrow.

"If you do, I will get to say I Told You So and I will be happy."

Well, he couldn't fall _now._ He'd never hear the end of it.

THE END


	48. Gestures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if you can actually do this. BUT it's Gotham, we've got Mister Freeze, who breaks every law of nature ever. (Poor Victor...Victor needs all the hugs and all the ice cream and SO MUCH therapy. However, relationship goals. Yes.)

Jonathan's long ago given up trying to keep Edward out of the apartment. Nothing works. He finds the emergency key, he picks the lock...he's become their own personal Kramer*.

Usually, when Edward appears-sometimes he just hangs out while they're gone, which is all kinds of invasive and _why_ and _if I didn't want to hide your body, Edward, I would murder you, I'm serious_ -he borrows things. The blender is a favourite choice, but once he borrowed their _alarm clock_ , and Jonathan really doesn't want to know what _that_ was about.

But today, he arrives bearing gifts. Well, a gift. A silver-coloured plastic box.

"What is that."

His smile is-according to Kitty-dorkilly adorable. Jonathan just thinks it's creepy and a little bit serial killer-y.

You're one to talk.

_Do you see me smiling?_

Dude, yesterday Kitty hug-attacked you and your face hurt for like five minutes.

...Shut up, that didn't count.

"It's a cable box!"

"...What."

Edward's expression says that everyone around him is an idiot. Maybe he'll become exasperated enough to leave.

"A cable box. You pick up TV channels with it."

"Fascinating. Why do you have one, you're always complaining that you're poor."

"I made it!" The grin is back. Jonathan can feel a headache starting already. "Well, I found it and I made some modifications."

Oh, no. He knows were this is going.

"Edward..."

"So now I can steal cable from my next-door neighbour, who is kind of an asshole anyway, so I don't feel bad."

"The life of a hardened criminal, hm?" Jonathan deadpans. Edward gives him a dirty look.

"Shut up, Jon. You've killed two people _already_."

"Say that a little louder, I don't think they heard you in Jersey."

"It's Gotham, everybody's done something. It's fine." Edward flaps a hand. "Anyways, because you haven't gotten a restraining order on me for anything, I found another box and fixed it for you, so you can steal cable from my asshole neighbour!"

"She insulted your car, didn't she."

"...Yes."

It is ugly.

_I won't be seen within five feet of it._

Good boy.

"What did she say."

"I quote: 'that's the ugliest effing car I've ever seen.'"

It's only thanks to practice that Jonathan doesn't burst out laughing. He's positive he deserves an award for patting Edward's shoulder in a show of sympathy.

"I'm so sorry."

"Yeah. So do you want this?"

"Will it explode?"

"No."

"You swear?"

"Mostly? I've had mine for two weeks and nothing's happened."

Great.

"If this blows up, if it so much as _smoulders_ , Edward, so help me, you and your car are taking a one-way trip to the bottom of the river."

"Okay."

"What do I do with it."

"Uh, you plug it in, and you smack it a little...I had to make mine a little tinfoil hat..."

This is going to be a long afternoon, he can just _tell_.

THE END

*Kramer is a character on _Seinfeld_ that popped into Jerry's apartment at random.

　

 


	49. Transport

"Carry me."

"What? No."

"But the classroom is far and I have little legs." He's not prepared for her to jump up and throw her arms around his neck and her legs around his stomach. "Yah, mule! Yah!"

"Kitty! Get off, I am not a mule, you can walk!"

"I don't wanna walk."

He sighs.

"It will be your fault when my posture is destroyed."

"Thank you, Jonathan." She drops a kiss on his head. "Onwards!"

Dammit. That's it. He's dead.

"This is ridiculous."

"Mm-hm. Hurry up, we'll be late."

Why. Really, why? There is no need for this. She can walk just fine.

Whatever. He'll just have to resist the urge to drop her. It'll take all his willpower, he's sure.

"This is taking foreverrrr."

"You can walk at any time."

"M'tired." She rests her head on his. "And I can see for miles around! Is this what it's like being you?"

"Miles around, huh?"

"Uh-huh. This is amazing."

Ah. Class. He drops their bags and reaches up to flick her elbow.

"Get down."

"You're warm, though."

"It's time to go in, get down."

She huffs and slides down.

"Thanks for the ride."

"You're not getting another one." he warns. "You'll have to walk back."

"Mm." She grabs her bag. "Whatever you say."

That doesn't bode well.

THE END


	50. Pop-In

"You're sure you don't need anything? Really, really sure?"

"Kitty..."

"I can't trust you! Last time you swore you didn't need anything, you walked to the Circle K. In pyjamas. In the snow."

"I was delirious at the time, that doesn't count. I'm fine. Really, Kitty, I'm fine. I'm just going to sleep."

"Okay..." She leans over to kiss him. "I'll be back in a couple of hours, then, if you're sure-"

"I'm sure. Go. Good luck on your test."  
"Kill me." she jokes. "I'm doomed."

And with one last hair-ruffle, she's gone. Jonathan sighs and snuggles under the comforter he dragged out to the couch. He tugs his glasses off, puts the TV on low-there's an _Are You Being Served?_ marathon, he'll watch that for now-and tugs the comforter up almost over his head. Time for sleep.

* * *

He's out cold, one arm hanging off the couch and the other arm flung across his face, when he has the vague sensation of being watched. His first, hazy, thought is that Granny's having a _moment_ , that she's going to wake him and drag him outside, and then he remembers that she's dead. Must be Kitty, then.

He fumbles for his glasses and wonders what time it is. It doesn't feel like he's been asleep for that long- _JESUS!_

Edward. It's just Edward. He forces himself to inch back down rather than press up against the arm of the couch.

"What do you want?"

"Dropping off some handouts from Miss Shelby." He waves a stack of papers. "And I was wondering if you had handcuffs?"

Jonathan chokes on his water and spends the next several seconds coughing mucus into a tissue.

_"What?"_

"Handcuffs. Most often used by police officers, but sometimes-"

There is absolutely no reason to let him finish that sentence.

"Why do you need-never mind, actually, I don't want to know. No, I really don't." He holds up a hand. "No. We don't."

"Oh. Drat." Edward actually looks somewhat betrayed. "I can't find any decent ones anywhere, and I need them for a project."

"So you asked me?" Why. What has he done to deserve this? Is this divine punishment for killing Granny? "No. No, I don't want to know why you thought that was a good idea. Thank you for the handouts, please leave me to die."

"You're dying?" He sounds far too happy about that. "I'm-sorry. But. Um. If you would permit me to stay and observe, if there's nothing to be done-"*

Never let it be said that he has poor aim-as Edward finds out when the remote control smacks him in the collarbone.

"Ow!"

"No handcuffs. No dying. Good bye."

"Feel better, Jon!"

One day, he will murder him and it will be the best day of his life, yes it will.

THE END

*I'm pretty sure Eddie's just fucking with him now. Pretty sure. Hopeful.


	51. Movie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May contain spoilers for the film The Silence of the Lambs. If you have not seen the movie and somehow don't know anything about it, skip this piece.

"Come on. It won't be that bad."

"Yes it will."

"No it won't. Besides, there's popcorn."

"I don't want popcorn, I want a good nights' sleep."

"Please? If I go by myself, who knows what could happen to me? I could get caught in a mugging gone wrong. I could get run over. Or hit on."

"But I hated that book!"

"You don't have to look, you just have to go."

"Fine."

And so it came to pass that they were sitting in a dim theatre, waiting for _The Silence of the Lambs_ to begin. Jonathan hadn't liked the book as well as he'd liked _Red Dragon_ , unfortunately, but he wouldn't have been able to drag her to that. She _hated_ that book-even now, whispering 'Tooth Fairy' in a dark room would make her jump.

**_Do it._ **

_No. She'll kill me._

**_Come on._ **

_No. Maybe later._

**_Promise?_ **

_Not exactly, but…_

**_Good enough._ **

It was cold in the theatre. Were they always this cold? And was the floor always…sticky?

**_You know what that sticky stuff is, right?_ **

_Soda?_

**_You're cute._ **

_I don't wanna know._

**_Why? Scared?_ **

_Sure._

**_Haha! Wuss._ **

Then the movie started. Within five minutes, Kitty had shoved the armrest up and glued herself to his side.

**_And this is why you dragged her here, isn't it._ **

_The reasons I gave her were true._

_**Admit it.** _

_Somewhat._

**_You're not the first, it's okay. Why do you think the floor's sticky?_ **

_Scarecrow, when I said I hoped this was scary, I didn't mean the EXPERIENCE._

* * *

**_Was that a fingernail in the wall?_ **

_Yes._

**_AWESOME._ **

Kitty hadn't looked at the screen since the moth had been found in the throat. She hadn't let go of his ribs, either, and they were starting to feel a little smushed.

**_That is an ugly dog._ **

_But the lotion line was beautiful._

**_Yes._ **

He moved a bit to try and readjust his ribs. Kitty wasn't paying attention.

**_Do it._ **

_I am blaming you._

**_DO IT._ **

He was about to, really, but then...then he had a better idea. A terrible, terrible idea that might actually result in his untimely demise.

_**You wouldn't.** _

_I might._

**_You're dead, you know that? She'll kill you. She'll fucking shank you._ **

_It's possible._

**_Just so we're clear._ **

_We're clear._

Scarecrow fell silent and Jonathan settled back into his chair, smirking. This was going to be golden. And probably very, very stupid.

But worth it.

* * *

Kitty didn't sleep so well. Jonathan wasn't all that surprised-in fact, he'd rather been counting on it.

Extracting himself from her was a little more difficult than he'd expected-she was clingy and kept waking up at every little thing. He did manage it in the end, though, carefully slithering out of bed and into the hall.

He didn't have to wait long for her to come to-three, four minutes at best.

**_You're dead._ **

_Yeah, but it'll be funny._

"Jonathan?"

He said nothing. After a few more minutes, he heard her get up and he ducked back, into that weird nook in the main room that nothing fit in.

"Jonathan?" She came out, shrugging into her robe and shuffling her slippers on. "You out here?"

She wasn't quite to the light switch yet, and he took the opportunity to slip up behind her and whisper, "It rubs the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again."

"JESUS FUCKING-" He wasn't quite quick enough to get out of the way before she whirled around and started hitting his shoulder. "Jonathan Crane, I swear to _God_ -stop laughing, this isn't funny!"

"Yes, it is, yes it is-ow! Hey, hey! I'm fragile, be nice!"

"What the hell is the matter with you, are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

"...for science?"

She made a noise that sounded more like an enraged cat than anything, hit his shoulder a few more times, and stomped back to bed.

"Scarecrow made me do it!" he called after her. No answer-she was probably flipping him off.

**_Oh, FUCK YOU._ **

_It was your idea._

**_Why is it always my fault, you little traitor? Huh? Bite me._ **

Whatever.

He went back down the hall, intending to go back to bed, and found the door locked.

"Kitty?" He knocked. "Kitty. Seriously. It's three in the morning, come on."

She didn't answer and he ended up picking the lock and dodging a small artillery of pillows before getting to go back to bed.

Worth it.

THE END


	52. Rude Awakening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on a true story, a phrase which here means, 'this totally happened to me, and I needed to inflict my misery on fictional characters'. It sucked, too, because I had JUST. CLEANED. Literally, that DAY. It's hot and there's construction, that's all.

_Fwip._

**Thud.**

**SCRAPE-SCRAPE-SCRAPE-SCRAPE!**

Jonathan sat upright, hand flying for the lamp cord. He'd heard a noise. He knew he'd heard a noise.

Light flooded the room and he blinked, reached for his glasses. There was nothing to see and for a moment he thought his dreams had been a bit too realistic. It wouldn't be the first time.

"Did you hear that?"

Damn.

"Yeah, I heard it."

**SCRAPE-SCRAPE-THUD!**

Kitty squeaked and scrunched up against him.

"It's in the bin."

"Probably a roach, the guy downstairs-"

Too late, he remembered that _telling_ her that was a bad choice. She made a low whining noise and clambered over him to the other side of the bed.

"Go see."

"Why do I have to go see?"

**SCRABBLE!**

She whined again and gripped his t-shirt.

"Because I don't want to they're scary and they fly at your face and besides you're the man here so you go."*

He'd gotten 'scary', and 'man here' out of that, but he got the general idea.

"If it's the world's smallest serial killer, I'm haunting you."

"That's fine, now make it go away."

The trash can was too narow to smash it-he'd slap a book over the top and just take it outside. Great. He wouldn't be getting back to sleep any time soon, probably...Christ, was it so much to ask for a good nights' sleep...

He dug out his binder and slipped out of bed, hoping it wouldn't suddenly fly up and hit him in the face. Gotham roaches were a special breed that were very good at that.

Great...

He was just about to slap the binder down when there was a rustle, a **SCRABBLE-THUD** , and a mouse hopped up and vanished into a dark corner behind the dresser.

What.

_What?_

"Kitty?"

"Is it dead?"

"It's not a roach."

The tension radiating off her eased and she inched over to the edge of the bed.

"What is it?"

"It was a mouse. It got out."

_"What?"_

"Yeah."

One minute she was sitting on the bed, and the next minute she'd taken two big leaps and was standing in the hallway.

"Get out and shut the door!"

"It's a mouse. It wasn't that big."

"Get out!"

"It's fine-"

_Click._

She'd shut the door. She'd left him in here!

_**With the mouse.** _

_Shit._

He may or may not have walked a bit quicker than necessary to the door, slipped out, and shoved a couple of towels against under it.

"We'll get traps in the morning."

"What if there's more?"

"Kitty..."

 _"What if there's MORE?"_ She shook him a bit. "They could be anywhere. Ohmygod, there could be one in the kitchen-"

"Kitty." He steered her away from the door. "Have you seen signs?"

"No."

"I haven't, either. Because there's just the one. We'll get traps in the morning."

She eyed the door and went into the living room, flipping on the lights as she went.

"I'm not sleeping any more tonight."

In all honesty, he probably wasn't either. If nothing else, he was wide awake.

There was a noise in their room-probably the fan blowing papers around-and they jumped back.

"So." Ugh, three AM. "Bacon?"

THE END

*I had my dog. Who was no help whatsoever.


	53. College Cuisine

Ah, the joys of college. The big one? Choosing rent over food and being left with practically nothing to eat.

They stare into the cupboard.

"Well."

"Um."

She looks up at him and he looks down at her and they both look back at the shelves, barren save for a bottle of red sauce that looks like it might be weird ketchup.

"Let's check the fridge."

The fridge doesn't have much else-an expired milk (neither of them wants to open it to pour it down the drain*, so there it sits) and a bag of shredded parmesan. The freezer holds naught but a bag of Ore-Ida tater tots.

Well."

"Um."

She shrugs and swipes the bag. It doesn't crinkle and she flings it on the floor a few times until the potato-brick breaks up.

"What are you doing?"

"It's better than nothing." she says, pulling the drawer open and frowning. "Get me out the white baking dish, would you?"

"No foil?"

"Not a scrap."

Great.

He passes her the bowl, pauses, and fetches the bag of parmesan out of the fridge.

"It's something?"

"What's that red sauce?"

"Can't reach it to find out?"

"Shut up."

Smirking, he gets it down and scans it. The label is long since gone and when he opens it, he can't place the smell. A little bit spicy, maybe?

"No clue."

She shrugs.

"This is going to be horrid anyway. Dump it in."

She stirs the concoction around and they both cringe. It looks awful. But it's food, and they have no other choices, so into the oven it goes.

This is either going to be the food of the gods, or horrendous.

* * *

They know it's done when smoke comes from the oven.

"Shit-shit!"

There's a sudden scramble-her for the oven and him for the smoke alarm. Disaster is averted and he joins her in the kitchen to look at it.

It looks worse now. Before, it resembled chunky vomit. Now it resembles chunky vomit that's been left in the sun for too long. It smells horrifically spicy and he wonders exactly what that red stuff was.

With the graveness of prisoners on death row, they each take a forkful, clink tines, and eat it.

Nothing happens for five seconds.

Then they're both crouched over the kitchen sink, spitting it out and getting handfuls of water to wash out the sheer _heat_. There is no other flavour but agonising **pain** and maybe a little bit of saltiness.

"Now what?"

They turn to look at the dish, sitting inoccuously on the stove, and shudder.

"I can live on coffee." Kitty says at last. "Can you?"

Jonathan nods.

"Better than _that_."

He pours it down the drain and hits the disposal. It sputters and chokes and shuts off.

Great. Even the disposal won't eat it.

THE END

* _We threw one out without opening it, but it exploded in the bins and the landlord had a cow._ _The smell, my god..._ _You want a surefire torture method, it's that._ _And then it sort of clumped to the sides...whatever horrible STD pictures you've seen, this was worse._


	54. Walkin' Round (the Mouse is Under There?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, we never did catch mine. I have no fucking clue what happened-I covered the floor in traps. Literally, traps everywhere. My room smelled like glue for ages (last one we had outsmarted the snap traps). Where did it go? I do not know. (Turn the lights off, carry me home...)

It was a long night. Sleep was a no-go, and every time there was a rustle Kitty attempted to meld with him like some sort of strange Greek mythology monster.

**_Sex?_ **

_Somehow, I don't think that'll go over well._

**_It's a stress relief!_ **

_...you didn't hear me, did you._

**_No._ **

First thing in the morning, they stocked up on traps and lined the walls with them. Jonathan was sure it'd be caught by nightfall. Kitty, not so much.

"It's a Jerry." she seethed. "It's smart. It knows we know it's here, traps are useless."

"It's a mouse."

"It is. A Jerry."

"You didn't even see it!"

"That's how I know." she said darkly. "Once, I was innocent. Like you. And then..." She spread her hands dramatically. "The Jerry came."

He patted her on the head and walked away.

"Sure, Kitty. Sure."

He was proven wrong about catching it by nightfall-the room smelled like glue and peanut butter, but there was no mouse. Fine. It had gotten lucky. Whatever. It wouldn't be lucky forever.

All the same, no way in hell was he sleeping in there, and Kitty refused to go near the door at all, so they ended up squished onto the sofa. It was, he thought, a blessing they were both thin.

**_If you can fit here to sleep, you can fit here to fuck._ **

_Will you knock it off?_

**_One of us has to be obssessed. It's in the Bro Code._ **

_You don't even know what that is._

**_I do so!_ **

_You do not, now be quiet._

* * *

They were awakened around three in the morning by a surprisingly loud **CLATTER!**

Ha. Caught the little son of a bitch.

He felt around for his glasses and propped them awkwardly on his face-they did not feel at all secure for some reason-and nudged the door open.

Something small and furry leapt over his foot and vanished in the hallway.

Oh. Oh, shit.

A check of the traps said that while the snap traps had gone off, they hadn't caught anything. What the hell? What _was_ this thing?

"I told you." Kitty rasped. "We have a Jerry."

Should he mention that it was running free? Probably not, but if she found it in the kitchen, she might actually murder him.

"It got out."

"What."

"Yeah, it made a...jailbreak. When I opened the door. You know."

She stared at him with an expression that could only be described as horror before jumping onto him as though he'd offered to give her a piggyback ride.

"Get down!"

"No!"

A broom pounded on the floor and they silenced. There was a squeak at the end of the hall.

"Go see."

"Get down."

"Hell no."

He rubbed his face and leaned backwards until she had no choice.

"We'll get more traps in the morning."

* * *

Kitty volunteered to get traps. Jonathan was tempted to go with her, but then it ocurred to him that that would mean he had been chased out of his own apartment by a _mouse_. And that was very much unacceptable.

Just to remind it that it had no power here, he stretched out on the couch and opened his book. And then promptly had to check under the couch to make sure it wasn't hanging out there. It wasn't.

**_What's that?_ **

_I'm reading, go away._

**_I heard a squeak._ **

_I'm not afraid of mice. You know that, right?_

**_Disease..._ **

_I am READING._

**_Can they carry rabies?_ **

_La-la-la._

**_Or like, brain-eating things? Or PLAGUE? Huh?_ **

_That's rats, go away._

**_AHHHHHHH!_ **

It was a shame Scarecrow wasn't corpreal. Then he could be strangled. Or subjected to Jonathan's favourite method of inflicting injury-the Novel Smack-Down*.

_Rustle-rustle!_

He sat up. The mouse had grown bold since its escape-the little beast was sitting on his backpack, bold as you please. Hm.

He slithered off the couch and crossed the room in two giant steps. The mouse did not move.

"Jerry, hello."

It blinked at him.

He felt around until he came up with some stupid baseball hat that had been crammed on his head at a secondhand book sale. Perfect. Carefully, carefully, carefully- _now!_

He swooped. The mouse leapt.

It landed on his shirt, sprinted up his arm, and jumped for it. The last he saw of it, it was vanishing under the sofa.

God. Dammit.

**_That went well._ **

_Shut up._

The front door opened and closed and there was a hesitant shuffling.

"Jonathan?"

"Hey! Get traps?"

"Uh-huh. Where is it."

"What do you mean?" He eyed the couch. It hadn't come out, as far as he knew.

"Have you seen it?"

"Seen what?"

"Jonathan!"

"Underthecouch."

 _"WHAT?"_ A plastic bag flew into the room and nearly hit him in the face. "I'm not coming in there!"

This was very unfair.

* * *

She hadn't been kidding, when she said she wasn't coming in. It had been three hours-surely the mouse had fled by now-and the closest she'd come to entering was to stick half her face around the doorway.

"Kitty..."

"It could be anywhere. Or there could be many. Oh, god, it's brought friends!"

"It has not brought friends-"

"It _has_ brought friends, I just know it!"

"Kitty," he said patiently, fighting the urge to shake her until she saw sense, "if it had friends, we'd know. Relax."

_RATTLE-THUD!_

She jumped and before he could protest, she'd shoved him in there and scuttled back serveral steps.

"Get it."

Fine.

There it was, actually, skulking by an overturned knick-knack in the entertainment centre. He inched towards it, trying to look as nonthreatening as possible, and laid his hand flat a foot or so away.

All those afternoons trying to befriend the barn mice in Georgia paid off-it took a few minutes, but the mouse did, eventually, scurry onto his palm. Before it could go further, he brought his other hand up and trapped it there. It didn't even try to escape. It just sat there, heart going a mile a minute.

**_Disease..._ **

_Shut up._

**_PLAGUE._ **

_That's rats, remember?_

**_RABIES._ **

_I'm getting rid of it, shut up._

"Where is it?"

"I got it."

"You got it?" She sounded so...cheerful. A regular ray of sunshine. "Great! Get rid of it."

He shouldn't.

He really, really shouldn't.

But...well...

He crossed the room and poked his head out. There she was, stubbornly not looking in his direction. Perfect. He crept up behind her, trying to be quiet.

"Kitty?"

"Christ-! I hate it when you do that...is it gone?"

The mouse in his hands squeaked. She paled and leapt backwards.

"What the fuck!"

"I said I got it."

"Get it out!"

"I was thinking we'd keep it..."

"Don't you come near me, I swear to god-Jonathan! Jonathan, stoppit, it's not funny-"

He grinned and extended his arms. The mouse moved a bit, its tail poking out between his fingers.

"I mean it, Jonathan, knock it off!"

He shrugged.

"Would you get the door?"

"You go first."

Ugh, fine.

She opened the door and he went downstairs to release it outside. Now, to go back inside and wash up-

-why was the door locked.

"Kitty?" He tried the knob. "Kitty, um..."

Damn.

THE END

*Do not underestimate the pain a hardback book can cause.


	55. Prayer of the College Student

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lord, let me have decent sleep and decent grades, and let there be free food and cancelled classes when it snows.
> 
> I live in Tucson, so when it does snow, class is cancelled. Except that one time when we got a New Yorker for a prof, and he didn't deem it necessary. JERK.

"It's cooooold."

"It's not that bad-Kitty!"

She unzips his hoodie, presses up against him, and zips it back up*.

"Waaaaarm."

"What are you doing?"

"Being warm."

"Seriously?"

"Uh-huh."

Whatever. There's no getting her out of there, and if he's being honest, it _is_ warmer this way.

He sighs and tries to look as long-suffering as possible when a tour group walks by, but judging by the giggles, he's not successful. Or they don't care.

_Please don't let me share classes with them next semester._

"Hey, Jon!" Ugh, fantastic. Why him? Why?

"Edward."

"It's freezing!" _Cease being so cheerful, it's sickening._ "Hi, Kitty."

"Waaaaarm." she intones, voice muffled. It's then that he realises that she's managed to zip it up so that only the top of her beanie is showing. Impressive.

"There's free pizza today. Tour group's here."

On one hand, he doesn't want to deal with the tour group. On the other hand, there are two words he has learned to love: 'free' and 'cancelled'.

Preferably not in the same sentence, though.

"He wants to murder them." Kitty says from the hoodie. "Doubt you'll get him in there."

"What'd they do?"

"They exist." he grumbles. Then he raps his knuckles on her head. "I'll make you get out if you keep that up."

"You'd let me freeze?"

"Yes."

She huffs at him.

They're still standing there five minutes later-where _is_ Professor Pigeon? Why is he always late?-when a man comes up to them with a piece of paper in his hand. By now, the rest of the class has trickled in and is huddled together by the door. Some of them are actively cursing the professor. He can't blame them.

"Who's that?"

"Unzip and see."

"Too cold. Tell me."

"Pigeon's class?"

"Obviously." he mutters. Who else would be here in this cold? Idiot.

"Class is cancelled, he's got the flu."

After standing there for a moment in disbelief-they stood here for fifteen minutes, and the old bastard's got the _flu?_ -the class trickles back the way they came. He sighs and gives Kitty a nudge.

"Out. Let's go to the library."

"Coooooold."

He unzips the hoodie and shoves her off.

"Walk fast, then."

THE END

*Jonathan suffers the Curse of the Tall Thin Man: shirts get wider, not necessarily longer, as you size up. So Kitty can share his sweaters.


	56. Intruder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gotham's Ed seems to be prone to accidentally sneaking up on people. How he hasn't gotten himself accidentally murdered (something tells me that frightening Oswald like that is a Bad Idea) is a mystery.

She means to get a glass of water. Really, that's all. A glass of water and a couple of ibuprofens, because her stupid period is coming and she's got a headache. So unfair...men don't have to put up with the days of paranoia, of frantic checking between classes to make _sure_ it hasn't started.

Privileged sons of bitches...

Whatever.

She shuffles out into the darkened flat, hoping she won't stub her toe on an errant textbook or step on one of Gotham's giant...really, anything. The vermin here reaches alarmingly large sizes.

She opens the fridge and the light spills out of the tiny kitchen and into what passes for a living area-catching a pair of striped-stockinged-feet hanging off the couch.

Okay, so maybe she should just quietly creep back to bed and call the police. But it's early (or is it late?) and her reflexes kick in faster than her common sense.

She flings her water glass at the feet. She misses and nails whoever it is in the face-there's an "OW!" and sputtering and before they can get up, she grabs the kettle off the stove, fully prepared to hit them in the face.

"Don'tmurdermesomebodybrokeintomyneighbor'sapartmentandtheydidn'tcatchhim!"

Wait.

"Eddie?"

"Kitty?" Jonathan materializes at the other entryway, textbook in hand. "What's going-Edward, what are you doing here?"

It is indeed Edward Nygma, he of no boundaries and, apparently, no common sense whatsoever.

At least he's not a homicidal maniac.

She sets the kettle down and gets herself another glass of water.

"I threw water at him."

"Uh-huh."

"He scared me! I thought there was a lunatic in here!"

"There is." Jonathan grumbles darkly. "The question is _why_."

"Someone broke into my neighbor's apartment and stabbed them." Edward says brightly. "But they escaped, aaaaand I really didn't want to stay at home in case they came back and tried to stab _me_ -"

"Who would _possibly_ want to stab _you_?" Jonathan mutters under his breath. Kitty pokes him in the ribs.

"-so I'm staying here tonight."

"No. Out."

"You'd leave me to die?"

"Yes. Out."

Now that she's not about to have a heart attack, it's actually pretty funny. Awful, and if he does it again she might brain him and say it was an accident, but right now it's funny.

But she's probably tired. Being tired makes everything funny. Like being drunk! But with less hangover, and more social acceptable-ness.

"Jooon, what if I die? What he's in my apartment right now? Most criminals don't go far when hiding from the police initially, actually, you'd be surprised how many-"

"For the last time, Edward-"

"Jonathan," she says softly, "nothing awful happened. Let him kip on the sofa."

"Kitty..."

"Be nice."

He sighs and looks beseechingly at the ceiling.

_Gotcha._

"Fine. This one time. You touch nothing."

So dramatic.

She pokes him in the ribs again and shoos him off to get a blanket with a firm, "Not the scratchy one."*

"Thanks."

"You should've just knocked."

"I was intending to be gone in the morning without anyone knowing I was here."

That's...a little tiny bit creepy. Maybe they need to see about barricading the door at night. Or when they're...erm...otherwise busy.

"Whatever. Just stay here and don't...I don't know, don't set anything on fire."

Edward shrugs and makes himself comfortable on the sofa. A blanket flies through the doorway.

"One night, that's it!"

"Good night!"

She retreats to their room and shuts the door.

"Was it the scratchy one?"

He shrugs.

"It's dark. I don't know what I grabbed."

She sighs and waits for him to get somewhat situated before making herself comfortable against his side.

"G'night, love." she mumbles. "See you in the morning."

"It is morning."

"See you later in the morning, then."

All is silent.

For about five minutes, until there's the sound of rummaging and a hissed, "How can anyone sleep with this thing?"

She should go help him. But...well...he scared her. And he wasn't exactly invited. And you know what, she's comfortable right here and she doesn't want to. So there.

Jonathan snorts.

"I know he'll just bring his own blanket next time."

"Probably."

"I'm not sorry."

She's not surprised.

THE END

*We've all got one. I don't know where they come from, but we've all got a scratchy blanket hidden in the cupboard. 

 

 


	57. Walking Disasters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idea from The Wombats’ song of the same name. Because DUH. Take some fluff for PDA Day! (And remember: tomorrow’s got CHEAP CHOCOLATE. I know which day I like better.)

He hasn’t missed Arlen, but he’ll grudgingly admit the warmth is nice. Gotham’s cold. They had a _blizzard_. A real one-with weather warnings and everything.

Now, granted, Arlen has its fair share of weather horrors, but at least those are familiar. He doesn’t like blizzards. Don’t judge, when one is skinny, warmth is hard to come by.

He swats half-heartedly at a mosquito and eyes the incoming clouds. It’ll rain later-probably a nasty one, ‘tis the season-but right now it’s not bad out. Sun’s down, there’s a soft breeze, and the Richardsons got a hammock that’s a lot more comfortable than he thought it would be.

He came out with a book, initially, but he’s long since abandoned it in favor of just closing his eyes and enjoying the knowledge that at the end of the week, he can leave and there’s nothing Granny can do about it. _Nothing._

He can see the chapel from here, just barely, and he flips it off just because he _can_. What is she going to do? Not a thing, because she’s dead and he’s not!

Mm. It’s amazing what that sort of freedom can do to a man. He hopes that if there is a Hell (because where else would she be), that she’s incensed at all the terrible things he’s been doing. Reading. Sleeping in (but not too often because he was dumb enough to sign up for a seven thirty class, never again). _Not going to church._

Really, her death was unnecessarily messy. What he should have done was informed her that he was going to convert to Satanism. That would have dropped her with a heart attack. Damn. What a missed opportunity.

He sighs and drapes his arm back across Kitty’s lower back. She’d come out here at some point earlier and made herself comfortable, but he’s pretty sure she didn’t mean to get comfortable enough to doze off.

No matter. He’s comfortable enough and besides, she’s still getting over a nasty head cold. The joys of working at Walgreens apparently include being exposed to plagues.

Granny wouldn’t like this either. This would probably get her to turn red and be unable to speak, which was quite frightening in life. Now, though, the mental image just makes him smirk.

Kitty twitches a bit, fingers closing around his shirt, and he lets his hand slide under her tank top. Still warm, but no weird raspy feeling to her breathing that says the head cold has gone rogue. That’s good.

His other hand falls and brushes against his book, the pages thick and dry against his skin. He should go in, but…he’s comfortable. Even if he did nearly fall out of the hammock trying to get there. So sue him, he’s not well-acquainted with the damn things and it’s not like there’s handles.

A cricket jumps on his hand and he most certainly does _not_ flail wildly in an effort to get it off.

Mm. He might just drop off himself…

Just for a minute or two…

**CRA-ACK-BOOM!**

The ensuing panic from both of them dumps them on the porch in a tangle of limbs.

“What’s going on out here?” Mrs. Richardson pops her head out and looks down. “What are you doing?”

Okay, this looks bad.

“We fell out of the hammock.” She raises an eyebrow and he scrambles to make her believe him. “The thunder-”

“We did, Mum-”

“Come in.”

Getting up is difficult, but they manage eventually and slink inside.

Not his finest moment.

THE END


End file.
